


Undead and Urban Society

by Sunfreckle



Series: Sweet like Blood, Sugar [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (I won't dwell on it but...vampires sorry), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Animal Death, Blood Drinking, But still Positive Vampires, Domestic, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, General warnings for, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Not as fluffy as Fangs and Flower Power, Romance, Vampire Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-01 19:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: The Amsterdam vampire community is generally very conflict-free. It certainly has been since Enjolras moved to town at least. That was nearly a decade ago now and Enjolras knows he’s lucky to have a home like this, and friends like this.That doesn’t mean he’s averse to change though and change is coming. It’s arriving by plane, from America, in the form of Courfeyrac’s friend Jehan and their fledgling Grantaire.[Pre-written, updates twice a week.][Can be read on its own, but probably more fun if you’ve read Fangs and Flower Power as well.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BadassIndustries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadassIndustries/gifts).



> This fic is for my sister who has been made to suffer for its creation and without whom I would definitely have given up on it out of pure frustration with the miscommunicating mess that is ExR.
> 
> With thanks to Amanda and Deb for all their cheerleading <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: talk about police, mention of riots. 
> 
> (Whenever French or Dutch is used it will be in italics, except for names).

_Amsterdam, March 2015_

 

“How many people are we talking?”

Enjolras frowns worriedly at Joly, who doesn’t look exactly easy himself. There hasn’t been a squatters riot in five years and really, nobody needs this right now.

“A lot,” Joly says soberly. “Fifty at least, probably more. They’ve barricaded the street with a container, set some piles of rubbish on fire.”

“And the police?” Enjolras asks sharply.

Joly shakes his head. “Doesn’t look like they’re willing to risk a raid right now.”

Enjolras hums. It’s dark and fifty plus people will be hard to control. It makes sense they’d be cautious.

“They’ll probably move in in the morning though,” Joly says.

“When we can’t do anything to help,” Enjolras grits his teeth. “Wonderful.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Are there any vampires or allies in there that you know of?”

“No,” Joly says and Enjolras can hear from his tone of voice that he took the trouble of finding out exactly that before coming to speak with him. “There were two, but they left with the first eviction.”

“Good,” Enjolras sighs. So there’s going to be arrests and people will probably get hurt, but at least he won’t have to worry about _that_ particular risk.

The squatters community, or what passes for it nowadays, has always overlapped with the… _other_ clandestine communities in Amsterdam. Enjolras cares about everything that goes on in his city, but this is extra important. He can’t have his people clashing with the police and he also can’t have them exposing themselves while trying to help.

“I don’t think it will be too bad,” Joly says and he sounds sincere rather than hopeful. “Nobody wants this to escalate.”

“Alright,” Enjolras says. “Put the word out to the other allies. Don’t interfere unless you have to. If there is an emergency anyway, you know where to find us.”

“Will do,” Joly promises.

Enjolras nods, considers for a moment, and adds, looking straight into Joly’s eyes: “If you and Bossuet go in, you _will_ let one of us know, won’t you?”

Joly smiles. “I think Bossuet has used up his ‘made Chetta worry herself into anaemia’ points for this month already.”

Enjolras smiles too, but it doesn’t escape him that that wasn’t exactly an answer. He fixes Joly with a meaningful look.

“Don’t worry, Enj,” Joly says. “I’ll keep you posted.”

He opens his arms and Enjolras leans down to hug him. The sudden warmth of it is still a little strange. Enjolras has known Joly and Bossuet for nearly six years now, but they are the only humans that get this close to him and it’s hard to get used to. Joly’s doesn’t hug half-heartedly though and Enjolras has learned to just enjoy it.

“Okay,” Joly says, finally letting him go. “I’m going home, but I know people keeping their ear to the ground and if anything goes wrong, you’ll hear about it.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras nods. “Let’s just hope the police deals with this respectfully.”

Joly gives him one of his optimistic smiles and heads off down the street towards the heart of the Jordaan, leaving Enjolras to do the same in the opposite direction, turning back to the Grachtengordel. Enjolras trusts Joly’s judgement, but he is not happy about all this. It’s frustrating to have to witness these things from the side lines.

Clearly he’s still frowning when he walks into the living room, because Courfeyrac gives him an enquiring look and asks:

“What’s the matter, _ami_?”

Combeferre looks up from his papers as well.

“There’s a riot in the Spuistraat,” Enjolras informs them, sitting down.

“The squatters?” Combeferre asks, raising his head. “I thought they left?”

“They came back,” Enjolras says. “Rightfully so.”

Combeferre makes a vague noise. “They were a hindrance to the hospital residents,” he says.

“They are people in need of homes to live in,” Enjolras says curtly.

“Housing is a right,” Combeferre says kindly. “Squatting, alas, no longer. There are other options.”

Enjolras grumbles slightly. He knows there are other options, his friend was heavily involved in the arranging and funding of several of them, but that doesn’t make this right. “Joly thinks the police won’t try to act until morning,” he says.

“Hm,” Combeferre hums.

“We haven’t had a riot in a while,” Courfeyrac says, taking his phone out of his breast pocket.

Combeferre grimaces slightly. “Do you remember those dreadful riots in 1980?”

“No, _mon coeur_ ,” Courfeyrac smiles. “Because I don’t dwell on parts of the past that do not give me pleasure.”

Enjolras would have had something to say to that, except he’s just noticed a suspicious box on the living room table. “What is that?” he says warily.

Combeferre looks at least a little apologetic. “You mentioned your laptop was acting up again.”

“ _Ferre_ ,” Enjolras exclaims in dismay.

“You’ve been needing a new one for ages,” Courfeyrac sides with his partner immediately.

Enjolras appreciates them both immensely, but they can’t keep doing this. “I could have taken care of that myself,” he protests. “It’s bad enough I don’t pay rent."

“Well, neither do we,” Combeferre says with half a grin.

"It’s your house, Ferre,” Enjolras says wearily.

“I don’t pay rent either,” Courfeyrac adds cheerfully.

“No,” Enjolras says in frustration. “But it’s your...your Combeferre."

“And don’t you forget it!” Courfeyrac beams, reaching across the couch to grab Combeferre’s hand and press a kiss on it.

“That was not the point,” Enjolras says emphatically.

“But it should be,” Courfeyrac says lovingly. “It always should be.”

Enjolras watches with affectionate frustration how Courfeyrac coaxes a kiss out of Combeferre. When they have attention to spare again he says, less serious this time, but no less genuine:

“I wish you would stop buying me stuff.”

“Well, we all have our crosses to bear, ” Courfeyrac says airily. “ _I_ wish lace and diamonds were in fashion again. Not wigs though, wigs can stay gone forever. Oh!” He gives Enjolras an entreating look. “That reminds me, I have ordered you some new clothes.”

Enjolras lets out a despairing noise. “You’re both impossible!”

“Oh come on, Enjolras, you’ve had those jeans for 10 years, they’re in tatters,” Courfeyrac points out.

“Half your wardrobe is over a century old, Courf,” Enjolras retorts. “Combeferre’s twice that!”

“Well, things were made to last back then,” Courfeyrac says dismissively. “And I only keep it just in case, fashions come and go and often come round again.”

Enjolras looks at Combeferre for help, but he just smiles and shakes his head.

“Come on,” Courfeyrac coaxes. “Just try some of it on. If you don’t like any of it, I’ll send it back.”

Enjolras sighs. It’s no use arguing with Courfeyrac. It really isn’t. Well, he’s grateful for online shopping at least. They all are.

“Please?” Courfeyrac says, clearly not convinced he’s gotten him to give in just yet. “Just to look nice for our guests?”

“Guests?” Enjolras frowns.

Combeferre chuckles.

“I told you _several_ times, Enj,” Courfeyrac says emphatically. “My friend Jehan from America and his – their – fledgling Grantaire. They’re arriving this Tuesday and I invited them to come straight here.”

Right, Courfeyrac did say something about that. “Are they just passing through?” he asks. Most American vampires don’t come to stay.

“I don’t know,” Courfeyrac says. “But I hope they’ll stay at least a little while! Jehan is a _dear_ , their sire is an old friend and old piece of work, if I’m perfectly honest, but you’ll _love_ Jehan, I’m certain.”

Enjolras and Combeferre both smile. Courfeyrac makes acquaintances into friends in two ways: by prolonged exposure over time, or by falling for them instantly. This Jehan sounds like the second kind and they are always the very best sort of people.

“Any friend of yours will be good company,” Enjolras says warmly.

Courfeyrac beams.

“But that does not mean I’ll dress up for them.”

Courfeyrac sighs, leaning back dramatically in his chair. “You _spoil_ my fun and your jeans are awful. You’re lucky I love you so much.”

Enjolras smiles. He knows he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I set up this story just so I could write Vampire Amsterdam? Yes, yes I did.
> 
> Dutch facts you didn’t ask for:
> 
> The “Grachtengordel” is a very pretty, very old neighbourhood with stately town houses lining the canal, it’s over 400 years old and I imagine Combeferre has had the same house there since he was alive.  
> The “Jordaan” is a famous neighbourhood known for its culture and sense of community. It was once a rather poor working-class neighbourhood, nowadays most of it has been renovated. The stereotype is that if you recognize someone’s face in the Jordaan, they’re your neighbour and if you know their name, they’re your friend. Of course J/B/M live there.
> 
> Squatter's rights were the _biggest_ deal in the Netherlands, especially in Amsterdam. Squatting (kraken) was part of the ‘counter culture’, but it was legal. It was seen as a right to “crack” a building if it had been left vacant for too long. Whenever the police did need to evict, riots were not uncommon. The worst of them happened in the late 70’s early 80’s. Squatting was made illegal in 2010 (after the government worked hard to improve social housing and combat homelessness) and although there are still squatters nowadays, it doesn’t happen on so big a scale anymore. The riot in 2015 was an exception and was reported on as ‘an old-fashioned Amsterdam eviction’.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be up this Friday~


	2. Chapter 2

“Man,” Grantaire grins, looking up at the buildings flanking the street. “This place looks like it’s about to fall apart.”

“Don’t be silly,” Jehan says, linking their arm with his. “It’s pretty!”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Grantaire says. “I just said it looks like it’s going to fall apart.” In contrast with the airport the inner city looks _ancient_. Jehan’s right though, it is quite pretty. Their hotel isn’t too bad either. They’ve just dropped off their luggage and now they are going to see Jehan’s friend Courfeyrac. Which also means meeting people Jehan has never met, because it seems Courfeyrac shares his house with his partner and a friend. Apparently Courfeyrac had tried to get Jehan to agree to come stay with him, but those two others were the reason Jehan declined. Grantaire is glad of it. He prefers to have his own space while he’s still finding his way around a new place. Still, he’s very curious to meet these people. Old world vampires are usually good for a laugh.

“Oh, look at all the little bridges,” Jehan gushes and Grantaire smiles at them.

Their excitement is almost tangible. He hasn’t seen them so genuinely excited to be somewhere since…since San Francisco he supposes. That’s almost ten years ago already. Fuck, time goes by fast. He’s actually quite taken with this place himself. Nobody stares at them – people genuinely don’t seem to notice Jehan’s flowery poncho – and the streets are well lit, made for nightlife.

“This way,” Jehan says, looking up from their phone. Grantaire does _not_ miss having to navigate with maps.

“Flash,” he hums when Jehan leads him into the street where their friend is supposed to live. “Should have expected that really, old blood, old wealth.”

“I think Courf said the house once belonged to his partner’s living family,” Jehan says and Grantaire can hear the faint edge of awe to their voice. It’s a strange thought, still being in the same place as when you were human.

“What was his name again?” he asks.

“Combeferre,” Jehan replies. “And the third one is called—” They hesitate. “ _En_ jolras? En _jol_ ras? I’m not quite sure how to pronounce it.”

“Well,” Grantaire hums. “I’m sure they’ll be nice enough to correct us poor uncultured foreigners.”

Jehan laughs.

♦

“They have your number, surely they’ll call when they’ve arrived,” Combeferre says.

Courfeyrac has been fidgeting at the window for the past half hour. The only reason why the windows have heavy blinds instead of being permanently boarded up is so Courfeyrac can look out for visitors at night.

“Yes, you’re right,” Courfeyrac says and he crosses the room to sit down.

Enjolras counts silently in his head, not looking up from his new laptop that still isn’t running quite how he’d like it to. He gets to twelve.

“ _Lieveling_ ,” Combeferre says imploringly when Courfeyrac gets up to flit to the window again.

Courfeyrac makes a disgruntled noise and sits down on Combeferre’s lap by way of compromise. Combeferre tuts and puts his book in his other hand so he can keep reading.

“What if they got lost,” Courfeyrac says, dissatisfied.

“Then they would have called,” Combeferre says soothingly, wrapping one arm around Courfeyrac’s waist.

“They didn’t set out too long ago,” Enjolras reminds him. “And they’ve never been here before, maybe they’re looking around a bit.”

Courfeyrac looks conflicted. Possibly trying to decide whether inattention to the city he has chosen to call home or lack of eagerness to come and see him would be a worse offence. But before he makes any sort of reply his phone chimes in his pocket. He grabs it eagerly.

“They’re here!” he cheers, jumping off Combeferre’s lap. “They didn’t want to ring the bell for fear of having the wrong house.”

He dashes out of the room and into the hallway and Enjolras has time to exchange a single amused glance with Combeferre before the cheerful noise of Courfeyrac greeting new guests explodes in the hallway. Enjolras listens attentively, but it is nigh impossible to hear anything over the noise of Courfeyrac’s welcome.

“Right through there, right through there,” he hears his friend say, having switched to English. “Let me put your coats up.”

Enjolras gets to his feet, so does Combeferre, and they both look expectantly at the door. Jehan enters first and Enjolras knows it must be them because they exactly answer the description Courfeyrac gave of them. Red-haired, sweet-looking, short, and with dark, shy eyes. They are also, to Enjolras’ slight surprise, dressed head to toe in flower print.

“Jehan!” Combeferre smiles. “Very nice to meet you. Combeferre.”

“Thank you so much for having us over,” Jehan says warmly and at the first hesitant leaning forward of Combeferre they move instinctually to mime the three kisses on the cheek.

So Enjolras greets them the same way, adding his own welcome and privately thinking that he understands what Courfeyrac meant when he said ‘dear’. There _is_ something endearing about Jehan.

“Aw, I was sure there’d be coffins.”

Enjolras looks to the door and does not quite manage to hide his surprise. Courfeyrac hadn’t given any description of Jehan’s companion beyond “their fledgling Grantaire” and Enjolras had hardly formed very detailed expectations. But after seeing Jehan he was definitely not expecting the scruffy, almost grungy looking guy that has just entered the room. Neither had he expected the possessive arm he wraps around Jehan’s waist.

“Combeferre, Enjolras, this is Grantaire,” Jehan introduces him brightly.

Grantaire holds out his hand to Combeferre, who shakes it with a pleasant: “Good to meet you.”

Enjolras steps forward, but right at that moment Courfeyrac bursts through the door and manages in one movement to squeeze Grantaire’s shoulder affectionately and pull Jehan away from him to embrace them himself.

♦

Grantaire lets go of Jehan, guessing that going against their host would not only be rude, but pretty much impossible. Courfeyrac is probably the most enthusiastic person he has met in at least half a decade. Courfeyrac is kind of a surprise to Grantaire actually. Perhaps it was unfair of him to expect someone in old-fashioned clothes that still only spoke French. In fact Courfeyrac’s suit is far more in fashion than anything he or Jehan have ever worn and his accented English is impeccable.

Impeccable and _very_ affectionate.

“It really is heaven to see you again!” Courfeyrac exclaims as Jehan laughingly returns Courfeyrac’s embrace and allows him to pull them into a corner. Courfeyrac fawns over them with affectionate dramatics and Grantaire turns away a little awkwardly. It’s not that he minds, but he has never seen Jehan get fussed over like that. Usually they do the fussing.

Courfeyrac’s two tall friends seem a little embarrassed too. The one introduced to him as Combeferre smiles and gestures invitingly to a table on the other end of the room. They sit down, or at least he and Grantaire do. The one called Enjolras stays on his feet, still glancing back at Jehan and Courfeyrac and merely leaning against the table, one hand on the back of Combeferre’s chair.

“Nice place,” Grantaire says, just to have something to say.

“It makes for a good headquarters,” Combeferre nods. “Private enough, but not too far removed from humanity.”

Grantaire nearly laughs. They’re in a city. It’s impossible to be removed from humanity and yet, they are all forcibly removed from it as far as might be. “Is that a concern?” he asks.

Clearly the slight sneer in his voice has gone unnoticed, because Enjolras replies earnestly: “It’s important not to be too far removed from humanities’ concerns.”

This is the first time that Enjolras has addressed Grantaire directly. At least he’s pretty sure it is and… Grantaire loses his train of thought for a moment. Enjolras has an intensity about him that neither Combeferre or even the exuberant Courfeyrac have. It’s impressive. Everything about him is impressive, actually. Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone look so imposing in ripped jeans and a t-shirt. Which, by the way, is a rather humble getup for an elder strongblood.

Humble is not quite the tone of voice Enjolras is expressing himself in right now though. “There is a bad habit among vampires of turning away from others and drawing into ourselves. It is all too easy to lose sight of what is happening around us.”

Not easy enough, Grantaire thinks, but right now he’s more concerned with the implication that these guys actually try to keep active contact with humans. That’s very unusual. “You’re here to make friends with humans?” he asks.

This time his tone of voice must have registered, because Enjolras narrows his eyes a little. “We’re here to contribute.”

“Right,” Grantaire nods. Well, after so many centuries they must get bored. Taking a liking to humans is probably as good a diversion as any. He’s met vampires like this before. They try to be altruistic, try to help humans. Either by trying to be kind or by keeping _other_ vampires from being the opposite. “So, what kind are you?” he asks, half-joking. “The ones that drink bottled or the ones that keep pets?”

Enjolras turns away in disgust.

“Enjolras and I don’t drink from humans,” Combeferre says stiffly, glancing at Enjolras.

Grantaire sniffs. Neither does he, but he doesn’t lord that over others. “Then why the hell do you live in a city?” he laughs.

“Because there’s more to be done here,” Enjolras snaps, turning around with eyes like blue fire.

Grantaire stares at him. The influence of Enjolras’ Presence damn near fills the entire room. It’s almost a physical sensation and Grantaire is pretty sure Enjolras isn’t even actually using it right now. He must be even older than Grantaire initially thought.

“The vampire community here was a little…indulgent before Enj showed up,” Combeferre says, putting a calming hand on his friend's arm. “That word you used, _pets_ , we really try not to use language like that anymore.”

Enjolras is downright glaring at Grantaire, who raises his eyebrows in an attempt to lighten the mood. That’s a pleasant surprise actually. And he certainly didn’t mean to _offend_ anyone, but they have to admit that their whole ‘involved in the human community’ thing is a little weird. “Oh? So you’re in charge here?” he quips, glancing up at Enjolras. “Jehan didn’t warn me I’d be meeting royalty.”

“I don’t ask anyone to follow me,” Enjolras bites. Combeferre’s hand is still on his arm, but he looks like he’s about to shake it off.

“Don’t suppose you have to _ask_ much for anything,” Grantaire laughs, leaning back in his chair. This guy could probably have a street full of people on their knees with just a nod.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Enjolras snarls.

Grantaire slants his head and gives Enjolras a fascinated look. He is in no way a threat to Enjolras and he hasn’t done anything but be a bit flippant, he’s not deserving of such passion.

“If you’ve got something to say to me—” Enjolras says hotly. “ ** _Say it_.** ”

Grantaire’s muscles seize up and he clenches his teeth against the overwhelming urge to speak. His lips part, but he doesn’t say a word. Not yet. Even though he wants to. Even though his entire _being_ —

“ _Enj_ ,” Combeferre says sharply.

Enjolras blinks, breaking his eye contact with Grantaire and takes an abrupt step back. He turns away immediately.

“Fuck,” Grantaire coughs, the tension leaving his shoulders as suddenly as it seized them. “ _That’s_ what that was supposed to mean.” The force of Enjolras’ order is still lingering in his mind and without meaning to Grantaire looks up at him. At the golden hair, the marble skin, the blue fire in his eyes.   _Fuck_.

Enjolras doesn’t meet his gaze though and suddenly, without saying a word, he paces out of the door, slamming it behind him.

“Was it something I said?” Grantaire says drily. He glances back at Jehan and Courfeyrac, who are talking with their arms wrapped around each other’s necks. They don’t seem to have noticed a thing. He turns back to Combeferre, who gives him a stern look.

“I am certain Enjolras did not mean to do that,” he says frankly. “And I am sorry he did. But you sure make a bad first impression.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire nods, trying to get rid of the feeling of Enjolras’ Presence clinging to his mind. “I believe in honesty.” This does not earn him a laugh, but strangely it doesn’t increase the disapproval either.

Instead Combeferre pushes his glasses up his nose and gives him an earnest look. “May I ask when you were turned?”

Right, question time. “1988,” Grantaire replies. He’s not going to lie about this stuff. Jehan will probably accidentally tell them anyway when gushing about the past.

“Really?” Combeferre says.

“Surprised I didn’t cave to your friend?” Grantaire grins. “Jehan is a strongblood, they taught me how to hold out for a while.”

“Hm,” Combeferre hums. “They taught you well then. Enjolras wasn’t really trying, of course…”

“Ouch,” Grantaire grimaces. “Don’t worry, I know my place. I’m sure all three of you could have me dancing and singing if you wanted to.”

Combeferre frowns. “We would never do that,” he says seriously. “The hierarchy in age and strength of blood should be something of the past.”

Grantaire gives him an incredulous look. He was only joking about the Presence, none of these three come across as the sort that would abuse their power, but saying they don’t care about the strength of seniority is going pretty far. Grantaire has never met an elder that didn’t at least expect some sort of special deference and Jehan is the only strongblood he’s ever met that wasn’t smug about it.

“I mean it,” Combeferre says seriously. “The ABC isn’t about any of that, it’s our ideas that brought us together.”

That makes Grantaire snort, but he can tell Combeferre means it. He hums. “Okay, if you say so.” He studies Combeferre’s waiting expression. “Are you under the impression I know what the ABC is or…?”

“Oh,” Combeferre says, giving a short shake of the head. “Amsterdam Blood-dependents Community. Most of the vampires around here are members by now, or at least attend some of the meetings. We try to offer support, keep an eye on each other.”

“Blood-dependents,” Grantaire repeats. “I’m guessing that’s not just vampires, but wards as well?” He uses the word deliberately, to show the remark about pets from earlier really was just a joke.

Luckily Combeferre seems to pick up on it. “Wards, yes,” he nods. “Although most of them prefer the term ‘ally’ nowadays.”

Grantaire nods, he’ll make a point of remembering that. “So your community thing, it’s more about creating a community amongst yourselves?” he asks. That’s a lot less questionable than trying to interfere with humans.

“Yes,” Combeferre nods. “Well, that’s the first step. We look to ourselves, each other _and_ the people we exist around.” His eyes look straight into Grantaire’s for an earnest moment. “On that note,” he says. “We have a very non-conflict feeding environment and we’d like to keep it that way, I hope you can respect that.”

“Of course,” Grantaire says immediately and Combeferre smiles.

He takes out a little notebook and scribbles something on a page before ripping it out. “I don’t exactly keep up with the night life,” he hums. “But there are several abattoirs happy to sell directly to customers.”

“Thank you, you’re…organized,” Grantaire says, taking the piece of paper. This will come in handy, he’s genuinely grateful.

Combeferre smiles. “It pays off.”

Grantaire returns his smile and is about to ask about the ‘night life’ when there is a sudden touch on his shoulder. Jehan and Courfeyrac have emerged from their corner.

“Where’s Enj?” Courfeyrac asks in surprise.

Combeferre’s face clouds over slightly. He opens his mouth and suddenly Grantaire decides he’d rather not have the exchange from just now repeated. He shouldn’t have pushed Enjolras and Enjolras was clearly upset at having lost control of his Presence. It’s better for everyone if this is all forgotten.

“I’m afraid my charming personality got the better of me again,” he says hastily, throwing in a penitent sigh.

“R,” Jehan says with gentle disapproval.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he grins and he grabs their hand to press a kiss on it. “But you really should know better by now than to leave me alone.”

“Oh, Enj has been on edge all day,” Courfeyrac makes excuse. “I’m sure it’s fine.” He lets go of Jehan’s arm and hurries through the door Enjolras just disappeared through.

Grantaire is relieved that Jehan makes no attempt to follow him and that no one seems to expect him to either. Combeferre stays put as well, and is looking at him with an expression that seems rather surprised and at least a little grateful.

“I think Courfeyrac mentioned you and Jehan are transient?” he says politely, glancing at Jehan.

“Mostly transient, yes,” Jehan says and Grantaire nods, but the next question is not as small-talky as he expects it to be.

“Do you have any insight into the scientific vampire community in the states?”

Grantaire blinks. “Can’t say we have, no,” he hums, looking at Jehan.

They look puzzled too and shake their head. “You’re a scientist?” they ask curiously, sitting down next to Grantaire.

“Researcher,” Combeferre says. “It’s surprisingly hard to get in touch with, ah, independent colleges. I’m currently trying to look into the exact consequences of the endothermic properties of our blood. Since the research into the diffuse reflection of our physical form has been nothing but dead ends.”

That immediately prompts a lot of questions from Jehan and Combeferre is clearly more than happy to answer. Grantaire listens with surprised interest. Combeferre knows his shit.

Courfeyrac returns, without Enjolras and with a smile that has just a tinge of annoyance to it. It disappears as soon as he sits down beside Combeferre though. “Oh good,” he says brightly. “Is it question time?”

“Jehan and Grantaire were asking about some of my research,” Combeferre smiles. “But I have probably talked long enough already.”

“No one ever tires of listening to you, _mon amour_ ,” Courfeyrac says fondly and Jehan gives Grantaire a delighted look.

Grantaire represses a grin. It’s pretty obvious Courfeyrac and Combeferre are partners. When they’re near each other, they touch each other without even seeming to realizing it.

“Ferre knows more about vampirism than anyone I’ve ever met,” Courfeyrac says proudly. “He’s been studying it ever since his turning.”

“It’s the only reason I was turned,” Combeferre smiles.

The way he presses Courfeyrac’s hand for a moment makes Grantaire suspect that he _would_ be adding something sickeningly sweet about finding another reason along the way, if he had been among better acquaintances.

“Was your sire a researcher too?” Jehan asks curiously and Combeferre nods. “Oh,” they sigh. “That must have been a good beginning. I still feel like I don’t know half of what I should know.”

Grantaire nudges their knee with his. Jehan doesn’t give themself enough credit.

“I can’t imagine Alexandre would have been very interested in the finer details of our lives,” Courfeyrac says carefully.

Jehan replies something affectionate, but Grantaire sees the slight disapproving look on Combeferre’s face and grins at him. He gets a halfway apologetic smile in return. Grantaire guesses Combeferre doesn’t like Alexandre much. Perhaps not very surprising. Grantaire has never actually met the guy, but he sounds much more suited to Courfeyrac’s style than Combeferre’s.

Courfeyrac is in the middle of scolding Jehan in the fondest way possible for not keeping up with their French, while Combeferre tries to enquire of Grantaire how their journey has been, when the doorbell rings.

“What now?” Courfeyrac says distractedly. “Excuse me.” He jumps up and hurries out of the room.

“Members of your society?” Grantaire asks amusedly.

“It shouldn’t be,” Combeferre says seriously. “We have meetings on Tuesdays.”

Grantaire laughs. Of course they do.

“And not at our own house,” Combeferre says with a slight frown. “But—”

There is an overjoyed exclamation at the door and Combeferre gets to his feet with a surprised smile. “Oh, it seems—”

He can’t quite finish that because Courfeyrac comes bounding back, with three cheerful people in his wake. Their wide smiles make it very easy to see that only the woman is vampiric, but the two young men beside her are definitely fully aware of this fact.

“Jehan! Grantaire!” Courfeyrac beams. “These are our dear friends Musichetta, Bossuet and Joly, partners all and such lovely people you’ll never want to let them out of your sight.”

♦

Enjolras had willed himself back to calm and control about half an hour ago already, but he’s still unwilling to go back down. And he promised Courfeyrac that he would. For one thing he doesn’t know what to say to Grantaire. He was rude and judgemental, yes, but Enjolras used _Presence_ on him. That is nearly unforgivable. He still doesn’t understand how he lost his temper like that. That hasn’t happened to him since his fledgling days. He can _not_ let it happen again. Enjolras supposes he should apologize and the thought makes his bristle. Still, what he did was ultimately worse than Grantaire’s insults. He should really go back instead of letting his friends make excuses for him. Grantaire had seemed more startled than angry, but surely both he and Jehan must be upset with him. Jehan doesn’t seem like either the type to get angry quickly, or to take up the protective sire role, but they are _very_ affectionate towards Grantaire. As affectionate a sire as Enjolras has ever seen probably…

A sudden increase of merry voices downstairs calls him back to the present. He hears Bossuet’s laugh above it all and Enjolras’ shoulders relax a little. Chetta, Joly and Bossuet are not expected, but if they have decided to stop by that will make everything easier. They are good at easy, friendly conversation. In some ways even better than Courfeyrac, who is much better than either Enjolras or Combeferre. Not that Enjolras is bad at it, not at all. That is part of why what just happened is so shocking to him. He usually has no trouble with new people whatsoever. But Enjolras knows he is not as easy as Courfeyrac or Chetta’s gang. They put people at ease. Enjolras knows how to entertain and captivate, but he is rarely _easy_ with strangers. Still, there is no remedy against that except getting to know people.

So under the cover of the cheerful noise of Chetta, Bossuet and Joly, Enjolras rejoins the company in the living room.

He is immediately rewarded with a brilliant smile from Courfeyrac and Enjolras smiles back. He looks around. Jehan is talking to Musichetta and Grantaire is sitting with Joly and Bossuet. Enjolras tries to catch his eye to gauge his reaction, but fails, so he goes to Jehan instead. He greets Musichetta and to his relief Jehan immediately addresses him cheerfully, glad that he’s come back. Instead of being cold, they seem extra friendly, which is not what Enjolras had expected at all. It turns out Musichetta was just telling Jehan about the Amsterdam vampire community and Enjolras falls into that conversation eagerly. Jehan has a lot of attentive questions and, to Enjolras’ delight, very critical ones too.

“It’s really a very positive community, on the whole,” Musichetta says happily.

“We have great people here,” Enjolras says warmly. “But we should never get complacent.” He smiles at Jehan. “I believe we can always be better.”’

Jehan smiles back. “I hadn’t expected such …such an actual community.”

“Did you not have anything like that in the States?”

“In San Francisco there was,” Jehan says thoughtfully. “A little in Philadelphia. Perhaps we never stayed long enough in the other places to really find the community.”

“I’d love to hear about San Francisco and Philadelphia,” Enjolras says earnestly. He has never been to the US and most vampires he’s met from that continent are only passing through. “Isolation, I think, is one of the worst things for our kind.”

“Absolutely,” Musichetta agrees and Jehan smiles, saying:

“I have been much better ever since I found R.”

That puts the necessity of speaking with Grantaire back in Enjolras’ mind and when he sees him moving away from the others for a moment to fetch something from his bag, Enjolras takes the opportunity to follow him.

“Grantaire,” he says earnestly.

Grantaire turns around in surprise and he looks… He just looks.

“About earlier—” Enjolras begins.

Grantaire’s face shifts. “What earlier?” he grins. “Did something happen? If it did I’ve already forgotten it.” And with another strange smirk he moves around Enjolras returning to his former spot calling out: “Here Bossuet, this is what I meant.”

Enjolras watches, perplexed, how Grantaire cheerfully shows Bossuet and Joly a notebook, without even looking in his direction another time. Grantaire won’t even let him _apologize_. A frown has slipped onto Enjolras’ face and he makes an effort to get rid of it. Grantaire is…cheerful. Some sort of cheerful at least. Carelessly so. Quite unlike Jehan, Enjolras thinks. Perhaps they complement each other in some way. Courfeyrac always tells him that he needs to be cheered out of his earnestness sometimes. Perhaps Grantaire does that for Jehan. Well, Enjolras thinks stiffly, he prefers being cheered with more than merry thoughtlessness. Still, Grantaire is not obligated to let him apologize and neither is he obliged to be serious. The others certainly seem to be enjoying his company.

“Enj, whatever is the matter with you?”

“Nothing, Courf,” Enjolras says with a start. He smiles. “Are you pleased with your impromptu party?”

“Oh yes,” Courfeyrac beams. “What a nice surprise, Chetta and the boys showing up!”

He takes Enjolras by the arm and leads him to where Combeferre is sitting. Enjolras sits down and Courfeyrac moves around effortlessly, arranging everyone so they can all talk at once and yet be one company. Enjolras is happy to be drawn into discussion on animal and human rights with Joly and Jehan. He does his best to speak to Grantaire also and even though he does not manage to get even one serious answer in reply, Enjolras feels that he has least shown Grantaire that he is capable of a gracious recovery after his outburst from before. That is enough for him. After all, his friends are all enjoying themselves. Combeferre pleased to be talking of his favourite subjects and Courfeyrac is beaming so that his fangs gleam in the lamplight. So Enjolras really has no room for resentment.

♦

“I’m a nurse, well, was a nurse,” Musichetta says cheerfully.

“ _Are_ a nurse,” Bossuet says warmly, sitting down next to her.

“I’m not,” she laughs. “Not practicing anymore, but I like to keep up to date on developments in the field.”

“That’s a lot of updates since the forties,” Grantaire grins. He’s sitting in a corner of the living room with the new arrivals, who are all blessedly easy to talk to and actually seem to get his sense of humour. It turns out Joly and Bossuet are not just Musichetta’s wards (allies, Grantaire has to remind himself), but her partners.

“It’s mostly improvements luckily,” she winks.

“In most of the fields, we _hope_ ,” Joly adds with a touch of dramatics.

Grantaire grins at him. He has sadly forgotten what it is exactly that Joly does. All he really retained is that it’s something to do with immune systems and that Joly doesn’t mind just being called a doctor. The three of them are all incredibly easy-going and Grantaire is inclined to love them for it immediately. With them mixed in, Courfeyrac’s high energy doesn’t stand out so much and Combeferre loosens up considerably. Even the formidable Enjolras seems to be enjoying himself. Or at least he’s talking. Grantaire watches him in between talking with the others. Enjolras always seems to be speaking passionately. The intensity in him is almost hypnotizing. It doesn’t help much that whenever Grantaire looks at him he can feel the memory of his Presence still tingling on the back of his neck. He decides not to risk another conversation with him, especially since Enjolras never addresses him directly, but he can’t help but listen. Enjolras is as charismatic as he is beautiful, if such a thing is possible.

It’s clear that both Courfeyrac and Combeferre are trying to curb his passion though. They have a subtle way of steering conversations that Grantaire recognizes for the mark of an old, steady relationship that it is. He is almost sorry for it. He has seen a glimpse of Enjolras’ anger and that nearly blinded him, to see his full energy turned towards something positive must be quite something.

Because Enjolras, although invariable serious, seems surprisingly positive for someone who wants to see so much change in the world. It’s baffling. Grantaire does have to amend his first impression though. Courfeyrac is not the only sociable one. Enjolras and Combeferre lose their stiffness very soon. They may be elders, but they’re not snobs. Clearly what Combeferre said about equality wasn’t just talk. Jehan seems delighted with all of them. Grantaire hasn’t seen them this lively in a long time, they’re laughing out loud and sharing stories with a shine to their eyes that makes Grantaire feel warm.

Yeah, he can work with this.

♦

If it had been up to Courfeyrac, they probably would have all been there long after sunrise. The house is certainly big enough to provide them all beds, but Joly is very clear about sleeping in his own bed and Grantaire and Jehan end up leaving at the same time as the other guests.

When they part ways on the street, the trio urges them very eagerly to please contact and visit them, phone numbers have already been exchanged and to Grantaire’s amused surprise there’s a moment of collective fumbling when Jehan and Joly try to hug each other goodbye and both draw back, unsure if they should.

“Oh look at us, nervous to make friends,” Musichetta laughs.

This puts them all at ease and after a very cheerful goodbye Grantaire links his arm with Jehan’s and they walk back to their hotel. It’s about five in the morning and the streets are much quieter now than they were just after midnight.

“Well,” Jehan says with a happy sigh. “What do you think?”

“Haven’t had so good a time in ages,” Grantaire says honestly.

Jehan looks pleased, but they give him a prompting glance.

Grantaire knows this isn’t about Chetta and her allies. Grantaire doesn’t think he has ever liked anyone so instantly as he did them. Apart from Jehan of course. “So,” he grins. “The Dandy, the Scholar and _le Roi Soleil_.”

Jehan laughs. “What?” they snort.

“Oh come on,” Grantaire says with a chuckle. “I can call them the Three Musketeers if you prefer.” He grins. “A trio of French elders ruling the roost.”

“Combeferre is Dutch,” Jehan reminds him.

“Oh yes,” Grantaire shakes his head. “Well, close enough.”

Jehan smiles.

“They’re alright though,” Grantaire admits. The few elders they met in the US, especially the strongbloods, had not been the nicest people. Elitist pricks mostly. These guys seem different. “And they seem to have a pretty good thing going here.”

“Right?” Jehan says happily. “I mean look at Joly and Bossuet.”

Grantaire nods. He’s never seen wards treated so equally.

“Isn’t Courf nice?” Jehan says warmly.

“Courf’s a riot,” Grantaire grins. “Do you think he learned magic host powers at French Aristocratic Finishing School?”

“R,” Jehan scolds laughingly.

“I like him,” Grantaire defends. He hums. “Combeferre too. Man, that dude knows his shit. Wicked smart.”

Jehan nods. “And Enjolras?”

And Enjolras… Grantaire remembers the Presence, the brilliant eyes, the impassioned speeches. He can’t talk about that. Or rather, he doesn’t want to. He can talk to Jehan about anything, he knows that. He also knows that in this case he’d prefer not to.

“Ah yes,” he says, trying for as light a tone as he can command. “Enjolras. _Wow_.”

Jehan laughs, nudging against him. “Is that all you have to say?” they snort.

Grantaire pulls a dramatic face. “Oh I have _so_ much to say. For a start: _Wow_.”

This time he laughs with Jehan and finally they shake their head and say:

“Enjolras is rather intense, isn’t he.”

“I think that’s a safe assessment,” Grantaire chuckles. “Very safe.”

He tries not to recall the feeling of the raw power grabbing at his mind and represses a shiver. Yeah, intense. But also… “He reminds me a little of you.”

“Me?” Jehan says surprised.

“Only a little,” Grantaire says, trying to find the right words to explain. “He’s…sincere. Just like you.” Painfully sincere. He smiles at Jehan’s quiet expression. “Not as warm though.”

“You’ve only just met him,” Jehan says, smiling fondly.

“No one is as warm as Jehan Prouvaire,” Grantaire proclaims loudly and they shake their head with a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the subject of languages: the triumvirate speak French when they’re amongst themselves of course, but Ferre and Courf speak Dutch to each other occasionally. Enjolras speaks Dutch fine by now, but he still has grammar problems and he greatly prefers French or English. As soon as Jehan or Grantaire are present conversations will be in English of course, JBM are British so they speak English as well.
> 
> (“Lieveling” is Dutch for “Dearest”.)
> 
> Thank you for reading ^_^  
> Next chapter will be up tuesday or wednesday, beta permitting~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: biting and drinking (consensual of course), mention of murder and the accompanying sadness.

Grantaire can take or leave Amsterdam if he’s honest, but the _company_ , the company is good. So good. He can tell Jehan is a little thrown by it too. In the best way possible. They’ve never been made so welcome before. Grantaire hasn’t even noticed the days fly by, but they’ve been here for weeks now.

“Aren’t you sick of that cramped hotel yet?” Musichetta teases.

“How?” Grantaire grins. “We spend all our time here or at _Chez_ Courfeyrac.”

“ _Chez_ Combeferre,” Jehan corrects him amusedly from where they’re playing a memory game with Joly.

“ _Chez_ Combeferre under management by Monsieur Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says and Musichetta hums a cheerful: “Fair enough.”

“You could stay here instead of the hotel,” Bossuet offers generously. “We have an extra room.”

Grantaire laughs, but Joly and Musichetta don’t.

“Are you serious?” Jehan asks, eyes widening in surprise and looking so touched that Grantaire feels a grateful warmth burn through his own surprise.

“Hey, if it increases the chances of you two staying…” Musichetta says fondly.

“You guys,” Jehan says and they throw their arms around Joly, since he’s the only one in hugging distance.

“That’s really cool of you,” Grantaire smiles.

“Just think about it,” Bossuet says happily. “And no pressure.”

Grantaire does think about it, he’s certainly still thinking about it when he and Jehan walk back to the hotel an hour before sunrise that morning. Amsterdam is nice. He’d miss the fuck out of Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet if they left. And even if it’s a little less easy with the elder trio, Grantaire is by now more than willing to give up all his former prejudices. Courfeyrac is always fun. Dramatic, yes, but such good company. Combeferre can be absolutely hilarious once he gets comfortable and Enjolras, well, Grantaire fears he did some permanent damage to that acquaintance with his introduction. Still Grantaire can’t help but admire him. Enjolras is so _bright_.

Jehan voice drifts in through his thoughts and Grantaire blinks.

“Would you consider staying?” Jehan asks.

Grantaire can tell they’re trying to sound neutral. Emphasis on trying. They really like it here.

“I’ve told you before,” he says, looping an arm around their waist. “Wherever you want to stay, we’ll stay.”

Jehan opens their mouth.

“But,” Grantaire says, before they can protest. “Yes, I would consider it. I _am_ considering it. I like it here.”

Jehan beams. “So do I.”

“Well then,” Grantaire grins. “We better start looking out for something more permanent then.”

Jehan leans into him happily, eyes bright. “I’ll ask Courf.”

“Unless you want to have a permanent sleepover with Bossuet, Joly and Chetta,” Grantaire winks.

Jehan laughs. “Maybe not, hm,” they smile.

♦

There is a wide variety of delighted noses that Courfeyrac is capable of making. He’s making one of his more exuberant ones at the moment.

“What is it, _lieverd_?” Combeferre asks, already looking pleased in advance.

“Jehan and Grantaire want to stay!” Courfeyrac informs them, waving his phone about gleefully.

Enjolras looks up in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes!” Courfeyrac cheers. “Really. They asked me to look out for an apartment.”

Enjolras hadn’t expected that, he really hadn’t. Transient vampires usually don’t settle.

“That’s great,” Combeferre says, smiling up at Courfeyrac from his spot on the couch.

“It’s _wonderful_ ,” Courfeyrac says. “Especially since I happen to know the _best_ land lord.”

Combeferre grins, pulling Courfeyrac into his lap and Enjolras considers in silence that Jehan and Grantaire will probably make a significant difference in their little community. A positive one, surely. Yes, Enjolras has to admit that he’s been holding back a little until now. But now he knows they’re staying… It will be good to get to know them better. He likes Jehan, they are so easy to like. And Grantaire, well, he is difficult to talk to. In fact they never really manage to talk outside of group conversations where everyone is talking to everyone by necessity. They had a bad start, it’s complicated. But Enjolras is determined not to let that stop him.

♦

“I hear you’re looking for an apartment.”

Grantaire grins at Combeferre. “Good news travels fast.”

Combeferre smiles. It does not escape Grantaire’s notice that he glances towards the corner where Jehan is talking to Courfeyrac and Enjolras before he says: “I am a rather…homely person. Ah, no,” he grimaces and tries to correct himself. “ _Huiselijk. Casanier_.”

Grantaire blinks through the Dutch and French and says amusedly: “You like to stay at home.”

“Yes, that,” Combeferre says with a laugh. “Courf is partial to a little more excitement. He cannot always be in one place. We’ve made it work. With occasional journeys together and short separations. Of course travel has gotten so much easier the past century or so.”

Grantaire nods, but it seems to him that Combeferre is talking about this for _his_ benefit rather than his own. He can’t imagine why though, unless—

“I’ve had some time to think about it and I think I can say I like this place as much as Jehan does,” he says.

Combeferre gives him an attentive look. “Their happiness is very important to you.”

“The most important,” Grantaire agrees immediately. “No doubt. I’d stay here for them if I hated it, but I dig it here.” He grins. “Really.”

Combeferre looks pleased, maybe even a little relieved. He pushes his glasses up his nose and hums. “In that case,” he says cheerfully. “It is perhaps worthwhile to know that I possess a small number of properties around the city that I rent out to members of the community.”

Grantaire can’t quite repress a smirk. “A small number, hm?”

“Well,” Combeferre says measuredly. “I have been here for a very long time.” He gives Grantaire a questioning look. “Would you be interested?”

Grantaire glances at Jehan, who is talking happily with Enjolras and smiles. “Yeah man,” he says, turning back to Combeferre. “That’d be aces. Thank you.”

♦

“This is _lovely_ ,” Jehan says happily, looking around the apartment.

Grantaire hadn’t pictured this when Combeferre said “basement apartment”. Well, he had said “ _souterrain_ ”, but still. One entire floor of the town house seems to have been built under the ground. Almost at least, the ground floor isn’t really a ground floor but raised slightly, which allows for narrow windows to let light and air into the underground apartment. Those are the only windows in fact. They are at street level and it will attract no attention whatsoever to block them off from the inside. It’s perfect, they’ll never have to worry about sunlight.

“The top floors are inhabited by allies,” Combeferre explains. “Not all the houses are divided thusly, but it is a particularly comfortable arrangement.”

“It’s absolutely perfect!” Jehan beams.

Grantaire agrees. This is a great space and it hasn’t escaped his notice that it’s very close to Musichetta’s place. His cheerfulness soon matches Jehan’s and it’s interrupted only when Combeferre tells them the rent.

“You have _got_ to be kidding,” Grantaire gapes. “You can’t rent a place like this for that little.”

“We can pay a fair price,” Jehan says earnestly.

Well,” Combeferre says airily. “I’ve been renting out properties since the seventeenth century. Never got around to adjusting for inflation.”

Grantaire grins incredulously and Jehan’s laugh accompanies him.

“Ferre,” they say, almost shaking their head. “We- Thank you.” They stand on their toes to kiss his cheek and then, in one single movement, they turn to beam at Grantaire and flit out of the room to go over the apartment again, squealing happily.

“Dude,” Grantaire says, still smiling but also rather conflicted. Hospitality isn’t the same as charity. Hospitality can be repaid, this seems like charity to him.

Combeferre gives him a serious look. “I’m glad you two are staying,” he says and Grantaire can feel that he means it. “You’re part of the community. And everyone in our community contributes in their own way. That’s more important to me than making money I have no use for.”

It’s beyond Grantaire to argue with that and anyway, Jehan soon comes to drag him from room to room again.

“Well,” Combeferre smiles, following them at a gentler pace. “I’ll leave you to your new home then.”

Jehan makes a delighted noise and abruptly throws their arms around him. “Thank you!” they gush.

Combeferre laughs and hugs them back. “You are very welcome,” he says. When he lets go, he looks at Grantaire and Grantaire opens his arms immediately. Their hug is shorter, but no less sincere. Combeferre leaves with a very pleased smile on his face and Grantaire watches with unrestrained joy how Jehan flits through the house, making wild plans.

“You can have a proper music room R!” they beam. “Or a studio.”

“And you can have your library,” Grantaire grins.

“Our library,” Jehan corrects happily.

Grantaire puts an arm around their shoulders and they both look at the empty space, full of potential. They’ve never had a home before, Grantaire muses, this is new.

“So we’re really staying,” Jehan says.

“Seems like it,” Grantaire hums.

“You know what this means, right?”

“That we’re going to have an argument about what music installation to get?”

Jehan laughs. “No,” they say, looking up at him. “That you’re going to have to start actually getting along with Enjolras. Not just stare at him.”

Grantaire grimaces. “I don’t stare.” That’s a lie and he knows it.

“It will help to get to know him properly,” Jehan advices gently.

Grantaire hums vaguely. Jehan is right, of course. About getting along and not staring, that is. Not about the other part. He very much doubts Enjolras will be any less impressive or overwhelming when he knows him better. Still, if they are really staying, he’ll have to no choice but to get used to it.

“We’re getting a record player by the way,” Jehan informs him.

“Of course we are,” Grantaire rolls his eyes.

♦♦♦

“It is just such a _shame_ ,” Combeferre complains. The first pre-renaissance vampire I manage to find and he has nothing to tell me!”

“That is not quite true, _mon chou_ ,” Courfeyrac says teasingly. “He had a lot to say about pig farming.”

“And _nothing_ else,” Combeferre says testily.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac exchange a fond look. Combeferre is always on the lookout for ancient vampires who might be a source of forgotten knowledge. Monsieur Lier was a proper ancient, nearly a millennium old, but sadly he had been a pig farmer in life and was still a pig farmer in undeath. Very disappointing for Combeferre. Enjolras and Courfeyrac had listened sympathetically to his frustrations about how someone could possibly miss the entire rise of the black death just because he was too involved researching truffles.

“He is so friendly though,” Courfeyrac says, in an attempt to mollify him. “Perhaps he will rustle up some useful friends for you after all.”

“One can only hope,” Combeferre sighs.

“Or someone new and interesting will find you,” Courfeyrac says cheerfully. “Like Feuilly did. Oh, I long to hear from him and Bahorel. Where were they, last time he sent you a card?”

“Egypt,” Combeferre smiles.

“Egypt,” Courfeyrac sighs. He always gets a little bit wistful when hearing of their friends’ travels.

“Speaking of friends,” Enjolras recollects. “How are Jehan and Grantaire settling in?” It’s a genuine question. Enjolras has gotten used to seeing them around and neither of them have been by lately.

“Wonderfully!” Courfeyrac says with a happy shine.

“Last I heard Grantaire was going to put a lava lamp in every single room of the apartment to ‘make Jehan feel at extra at home’, as a surprise,” Combeferre chuckles.

“Yes, that’s what I mean, they’re doing wonderful,” Courfeyrac grins. “Jehan said they’re nearly done. Apparently Grantaire got a little carried away with painting the walls.”

“Are they coming to the meeting this Tuesday?” Enjolras asks.

“I think so,” Courfeyrac nods.

“Both of them?”

“Not sure, but Jehan didn’t say R wasn’t coming,” Courfeyrac says. “Why?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Just wondering.”

♦♦♦

The look on Jehan’s face when they burst through the door is enough to make Grantaire forget about how hungry he is. He’s been so preoccupied with painting that he forgot to feed.

“What?” he grins. “Tell me the good news.”

“ _R_ ,” Jehan says, eyes glittering like stars. “They have _gardens_. In the middle of the city! Allotments! You can grow whatever you want there!”

Grantaire smiles. The sunshine on Jehan’s face is better than the real thing. “You’re finally getting your garden then.”

“Yes!” Jehan cheers. “I mean, I’d love to. There’s a waiting list of course.”

“I’m sure we can do something about that,” Grantaire hums.

“R, no,” Jehan laughs. “But can you imagine! I could grow my own flowers!”

“About time,” Grantaire laughs. If there’s anyone that deserves a garden of their own, it’s Jehan.

Jehan makes a delighted sound and hugs him round the waist, hiding their smiling face against his chest for a moment. They look up at him and search his face. “Have you eaten?”

“No…” he confesses.

They frown and Grantaire winces.

“I know, bad habit,” he says. “But, art.”

Jehan smiles, shaking their head. “Bit late to go hunting now,” they say. “Or shopping,” they add. “But you can drink from me if you want. I drank my fill the night before last.”

Grantaire gives them a grateful look, before giving them a teasing squeeze. “Someone nice?”

“Lovely,” Jehan sighs. “So smart too. Really clever.” They expand on the nicer aspects of their night out for a while, gently pulling Grantaire towards the couch.

He listens fondly and makes a grateful sound when they take off their cardigan and offer him their arm. Jehan’s blood tastes like comfort. Grantaire drinks slowly, careful not to be sloppy and spill on either of their clothes, and Jehan strokes him absentmindedly through his hair while he does. The hunger drains slowly from his body as he drinks and Grantaire pulls away without Jehan having to remind him not to take too much. He laps at Jehan’s skin, cleaning the wound and watching it heal as the blood is no longer drawn from it.

“Combeferre told me our mouths are sterile,” Jehan hums, their fingers scratching affectionately down the back of his neck. “I never knew that.”

“Me neither,” Grantaire hums and he’s capable of sparing some thoughts for Combeferre, who seems to command an endless flow of knowledge, but most of his mind is too full of Jehan. He leans against them, swallowing and inhaling deeply by turns to weaken the taste of them in his mouth, because it’s extremely distracting. In a good way. But still. They have to go out and be sociable.

Jehan is clearly not in a hurry though. They are happy to stay on the couch a little longer and talk dreamily of all the flowers and herbs they want to grow. Grantaire listens to them, waiting for the comfort and strength to diffuse throughout his body. He hadn’t drunk from Jehan in a long time. He never quite forgets, but it’s always a bit of a shock to be properly reminded how good it feels. Animal blood is weak as water compared with what lives in Jehan.

Eventually he sits upright and Jehan smiles at him. “Feel better?”

“Great,” he grins and he presses a kiss to the side of their head. “Like I could take on the damn world.”

Jehan makes a pleased noise and gets to their feet, pulling him with them. “Does that include actually talking to Enjolras?”

Grantaire pulls a face, but squares his shoulders. “You know what,” he says, feeling the balance in his body. “I think tonight it does.”

♦♦♦

Having Jehan and Grantaire as fixed members of the community is a good thing, Enjolras can see that. They fit in well. Everyone likes them. He likes them himself. It’s just... Grantaire is impossible to read. He seems to have let go of the Presence incident, because it seems to Enjolras he has at least stopped avoiding talking to him. But he hasn’t brought it up to talk it out either and when they do talk, it far too often ends in an argument.

Jehan often has very useful contributions to their community meetings. They’re very attentive to social issues. They have also been hunting within the club scene for a long time, something not many of the older vampires around here are comfortable with. Enjolras can see the younglings find it much easier to talk to Jehan about that sort of stuff than to anyone else. That alone is an extremely good circumstance.

Grantaire is different though. He listens more often than he contributes and his contributions are…jarring. Enjolras doesn’t know why exactly, because it can’t be just the fact that they disagree on many subjects. It’s true that Grantaire has a rather acidic sense of humour that Enjolras has yet to learn to appreciate (jokes about draining police officers aren’t funny), but even that isn’t enough to make Enjolras understand why they clash so terribly. It’s not like he isn’t used to people disagreeing with him. For some reason when Grantaire does it though, it makes Enjolras lose his temper.

The last real conversation they had was about money. Or rather, how to arrange one's finances in such a way that it was capable to pay fair taxes without having to provide real insight in the rather complicated banking affairs of someone that has lived far too long and technically has no legal income. It made Combeferre uncomfortable, because that sort of subject usually does, and all Enjolras had wanted to do was to explain to some of the newcomers through what channels it was best to go to stash away funds, but Grantaire had insisted on making a big deal about offshore bank accounts and tax evasion.

That had been the exact _opposite_ of the point Enjolras was trying to make. Combeferre and Courfeyrac went through an extreme amount of trouble to be able to _pay_ taxes. Evading them would have been far easier. Just like it’s a lot of effort to be able to vote. But the trouble is worth it, they do it on principle. Grantaire _must_ understand that.

It’s almost like he’s being flippant on purpose. Perhaps he hasn’t forgiven him for their first meeting after all. Maybe he doesn’t want to contribute to the community because of him. Enjolras has heard him sneeringly call him “Roi Soleil” behind his back and annoying as that is, it bothers Enjolras even more that his actions have apparently prevented Grantaire from integrating properly into their community. Because Jehan has told him frequently that Grantaire likes it here, but he does not look it. At least not at the meetings. When he usually just sits in a corner, either very silent or talking loudly.

It’s the former tonight, which increases their chances of getting through the meeting without a spat. There are no guarantees, however. The meeting hasn’t started yet after all. They’re still waiting for Bossuet. He’s late. Which is not at all unusual. If it had been Joly, Enjolras would have been worried, but—

“Boss, what’s the matter?”

Enjolras turns around to see Joly and Musichetta anxiously getting to their feet. Bossuet has just appeared in the doorway of the community centre and he looks so unlike himself that Enjolras starts. Bossuet is one of the most cheerful people he knows. It’s a shock to see him grey-faced like this.

“Something happened,” Bossuet mutters, closing the door behind him and looking back as if he wants to check that there’s no one in the hallway. He casts his eyes through the room, his eyes lingering a little longer on some of the younglings sitting with Jehan in one corner. Apart from them it’s only old friends and established members at the moment.

“What happened, Bossuet?” Courfeyrac asks and Enjolras draws near too. Bossuet doesn’t look hurt, but his distress is obvious.

He drags a hand across his bald head, rubbing at the back of his neck before letting himself be seated between Musichetta and Joly. “Someone got drained in Veenendaal.”

The room goes deadly quiet in an instant.

“ _What_ ,” Enjolras hisses. “Who did it?”

“They don’t know,” Bossuet says soberly. “So far nobody’s come forward.”

“Are you expecting them to?” Grantaire speaks up and Enjolras can’t stand the incredulity in his voice.

“This doesn’t happen here,” he snaps and Grantaire has the decency to shut his mouth.

“Do we know the name of the victim?” Combeferre asks, frowning heavily.

“Not yet,” Bossuet says. “I only got the first basic information.”

Courfeyrac has instinctually moved towards the younglings, but they seem tolerably calm. “Have they got enough elders or strongbloods to have a proper investigation?” he asks, looking at Bossuet.

“I think so,” he nods. “They’ve asked Sister Simplice to come down.”

Enjolras sighs. It’s hateful, but in crises such as these elders with strong Presence are necessary. Simplice has never abused her position though. She rarely leaves the convent in Utrecht, so Enjolras has only met her a few times. But Combeferre trusts her explicitly and that is good enough for Enjolras.

“Veenendaal is small, it must have been a transient,” someone muses.

“Let’s not start with the accusations just yet,” Combeferre says, but his expression is very strained.

“Is the police involved?” Enjolras asks. “Who discovered this?”

“Humans,” Bossuet says, making nearly everyone in the room wince. “And yes, the police is involved.”

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair. This is bad. It’s bad and there’s nothing they can do about it.

Combeferre clears his throat. “Simplice will deal with it,” he says, but he doesn’t sound certain.

“Something must be done for the surrounding community,” Enjolras opines. This sort of behaviour is unacceptable.

“We can’t have this happen again,” Courfeyrac says in a small voice.

Combeferre goes to him immediately, muttering something indistinct and taking his hand.

“Will this attract hunters?” one of the younglings asks.

“No,” Enjolras says firmly. “This will be dealt with. We shall contact Simplice and…do we have a contact in Veenendaal?”

“I have a friend there,” Bossuet says. “That’s how I heard.”

“An ally?” Enjolras asks. If Bossuet heard this straight from the blood dependents community there, the news might still be regulated correctly. That should have been his first question of course.

“Yes,” Bossuet nods. “Their efforts are split between controlling the police and their own investigation at the moment.”

“Can we do something?” Jehan asks gently. “Anything that would help?”

There is a short, dejected silence.

“Not right now,” Musichetta breaks it. “Not until we’re asked. Not until we know more…” She has her arm wrapped around both Bossuet and Joly and she looks weary.

Enjolras knows scenes like these are nothing new to her and it makes him angry. Things like this shouldn’t happen anymore. He looks around at the collection of fallen faces. His friends are all scared or sad or awfully resigned and he hates it.

“Well, that’s depressing,” Grantaire’s voice pushes through Enjolras’ thoughts. He’s getting to his feet and Enjolras wishes that for once, he wouldn’t be like this. Surely Grantaire can sense that this is not the time for irony.

He tries to catch his eye, to make him sit down again, but Grantaire doesn’t look at him. Instead he reaches behind one of the benches and, to Enjolras’ incredulity, hauls up his guitar case.

♦

Grantaire can feel Enjolras glaring at him, so he keeps his own gaze fixed firmly on his instrument as he unpacks it. He doesn’t think he could take the full force of one of Enjolras’ scowls right now. But the younglings are scared, Courfeyrac and Combeferre look like they’d like to retreat into each other’s arms and never move again and Bossuet and Joly are both struggling for some sort of strength or cheerfulness to support Musichetta, who looks more jaded than Grantaire has ever seen her. There is nothing they can do right now. Talking about it won’t help until there are plans to be made. He has nothing uplifting to say. Music will have to do.

Jehan looks up to smile at him as soon as he plucks the first string and although Grantaire can’t quite think of a song suitable to close a subject this heavy, it helps to break fill the downtrodden silence with rhythm and melody.

“He plays well, doesn’t he,” Jehan says softly, nudging the youngling on their right when they look admiringly at Grantaire’s. “He does requests when asked nicely.”

“I do, on occasion,” Grantaire nods, still avoiding to look in Enjolras direction, but throwing a glance towards Bossuet and his partners. They’re all listening in silence, but they look a bit less grey.

“Excuse me,” Enjolras says stiffly and he leaves the room.

Grantaire looks up and watches him go regretfully. If there’s anyone that looked like they could use a little music, it was him.

“Know anything by the Beatles?” Joly asks, smiling weakly.

“Terribly British,” Grantaire smirks, but he’s extremely grateful for the suggestion.

“Play All You Need Is Love,” Courfeyrac prompts, doing his level best to both hug Combeferre and be hugged by Combeferre while still being capable of facing the room.

“Oh god,” Grantaire hums, sliding his hand into the right chord and pulling a face at the younglings in the hopes of making them smile. “I better have some help with the singing then.”

They help him, and to Grantaire’s relief, he can see it helps them too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sister would like to inform you all that the immortal pig farmer is called Sang Lier and that this is very very funny.
> 
> I took the opportunity to let Sister Simplice keep her vocation, both because I think a vampire nun is a delightful image and because Utrecht (the biggest city near Veenendaal) is home to a convent whose Sisters have long contributed to various social work and are a rather quaint sight, since most of Dutch society is non-religious with Protestant roots, not Catholic.
> 
> This is straying rather far away from my usual fluffy writings, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: drinking from animals/animal death (bird), conflict. Oh, and tropes, shameless use of tropes~

The shadow of the murder in Veenendaal lingers for quite a while, but apart from everybody being extra alert there doesn’t seem to be any real fallout. No one forgets about it, of course, but Grantaire is glad to hear that the vampire community over there is convinced it _had_ been a transient. Someone that moved on immediately, or at least hasn’t caused trouble again, for whatever reason. Bossuet is the one that that keeps track of most of the information concerning the case, but he’s his old self again and eventually they just stop talking about it. It’s not like it’s a pleasant subject and they have better things to concern themselves with. Musichetta’s birthday is coming up and Grantaire is not surprised to learn that Joly and Bossuet do not condone the vampiric tradition of only celebrating decennial or even centennial birthdays.

“Only the presents are a problem,” Joly sighs. “She keeps insisting she doesn’t want anything.”

“We usually plan a surprise,” Bossuet says. He perks up. “Hey, weren’t you planning something for Jehan?”

Grantaire grins. “Hell yeah I am, if I can find the right props.”

“What are you looking for?” Joly asks curiously.

“Jehan insisted on having a record player in the apartment,” Grantaire explains. “It’s a really modern one, hooked up to the same system as the stereo. What I want to get is one of those actual gramophones with the big trumpet things and a crank.” He grins. “I want to swap it out for the one they bought.”

Joly looks delighted and Bossuet laughs.

“If you want a working one that’s gonna be expensive,” he snickers. “But there are definitely people that could help you get someone like that.”

“Working would be a bonus,” Grantaire says. “But it doesn’t _have_ to work.” The joke will work either way and Jehan might enjoy the prank more if they know he didn’t spend too much money on it.

“If it works, they might want to keep it for real,” Joly winks.

Grantaire laughs. “They might! Oh damn, I didn’t think this through.”

The doorbell rings and Joly walks to the intercom. “Hello?” he says, smile still audible in his voice. “Oh, hi Enj!”

Grantaire looks round in surprise. He had expected Chetta, not Enjolras. Then again, Musichetta has a key.

“Sure, come on up,” Joly says, pressing the button for the door.

Grantaire grimaces slightly but stays put. Joly dawdles in the hallway, waiting for the tap on the door and he cheerfully welcomes Enjolras inside when it comes.

“I hope it’s not business you’re here for,” Joly jokes. “Cause R’s here and we haven’t been serious for at least two hours.”

Grantaire can’t see Enjolras’ expression, but he does hear the reply.

“Chetta not home then?”

It sounds amused enough for Grantaire to call back loudly: “If you’re implying I drove her away, I resent that. If you are suggesting she is the common sense in this household, probably fair.”

“Hey!” Joly huffs laughingly and to Grantaire’s delight Enjolras smiles and says:

“I wasn’t implying anything, but now you mention it…”

He sits down and for once he seems almost relaxed. Grantaire listens to him talk and wonders how Enjolras manages to be pleased with the same intensity as he can be indignant. Because that’s what Grantaire is seeing. It’s a sight to behold. Grantaire didn’t know Enjolras could be like that.

“Oh, Enj,” Bossuet perks up. “R was just telling us earlier—”

The bell rings again and Grantaire whistles. “You guys are far too popular for me to hang out with you.”

Over by the intercom Joly makes a strange noise. “Hello! Yes, of course. Come right up,” he says, but as soon as he releases the button he spins around. “It’s Sanquin,” he announces.

“Who now?” Grantaire asks, but Enjolras pulls a face and Joly says rather suddenly:

“Both of you, hide somewhere, I told them they could come up.”

Grantaire opens his mouth to demand more information, but he doesn’t get a chance.

“I’m not hiding for Sanquin or anyone else,” Enjolras says defiantly.

“Oh yes you are,” Joly says, dragging him to his feet. “Because you’ll get into an argument with them again. And you—” He points at Grantaire. “They don’t know you, they’re going to try and get you to register with them and it will take an age.”

“Not if we tell them to mind their own d—”

“I’m friendly with these people for very good reasons,” Joly interrupts Enjolras. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

“You really shouldn’t argue with hem when he’s using his doctor voice, you know,” Bossuet supplies and Grantaire allows Joly to push him into the hallway, kind of mesmerized by the sight of Enjolras being dragged around by his sleeve.

“I’ll get them to leave as soon as possible,” Joly says, opening a random door and waving them inside. “Until then just sit tight and _shush_.”

The door closes with a thump and Grantaire blinks. “Well.”

He turns around. They’re in the bathroom. Enjolras is standing by the bath, looking severely disgruntled and still annoyingly beautiful. Of course. Grantaire grimaces slightly. He hasn’t done anything to deserve being trapped here with him like this. He really hasn’t.

“What the hell is Sanquin?” he asks. To have something to say, but also because he’d really like to know who exactly is responsible for doing this to him.

“Sanquin Blood Provisions,” Enjolras says disapprovingly. “Short answer, they’re the national blood bank.”

“Like the red cross?” Grantaire asks.

“If only,” Enjolras snorts. “They’d be less of a nuisance.”

Grantaire stares at him. “You mean they _know_?” he asks, baffled. “This is a human organization, right?”

“Technically, yeah,” Enjolras sighs. “It’s— It’s complicated.”

Grantaire weighs his options. Clearly Enjolras has a problem with these blood bank people, but listening to Enjolras’ righteous indignation at least means there’s less danger of _Grantaire_ saying anything to offend him. And they’re literally stuck here, in a small bathroom made even smaller because it’s stuffed full of weirdly colourful accessories. The alternative to awkward conversation is just awkward silence.

“So?” he prompts.

Enjolras sighs and runs a hand through his glorious tangle of blonde hair. “There used to be regional blood banks here,” he begins after a moment of hesitation. “In the late nineties they fused and became Sanquin.”

He grits his teeth slightly and Grantaire unhelpfully considers that when it’s not directed towards him Enjolras annoyance is actually kind of intriguing to watch.

“At that time the Red Cross used to run the research labs that looked into blood sciences and transfusions and the like. Ferre tells me they were a lot less nosy.”

Grantaire nods. He knows Enjolras hasn’t been here long. Not compared with Combeferre and Courfeyrac anyway. It’s why his position as a key player in the community is so extraordinary. Or it would be extraordinary if it had been anyone other than Enjolras they were dealing with here.

“Sanquin took over collection and distribution of blood, as well as the research,” Enjolras continues. “But of course they worked with the same people and, well, they all used to be small, local blood banks and this is small country. Some of the employees just…knew.”

Grantaire shifts uncomfortably and Enjolras nods at him.

“Exactly.” He sighs. “Sanquin is technically not a government organization. They’re a non-profit with government funding, but…” His lips curl into a sneer. “They are _everywhere_. They have a big laboratory here and one in Nijmegen but they have offices and collection points in every major city.”

“So they know about us, what do they do?” Grantaire asks.

“I suppose they see it as trying to help,” Enjolras says. “They offer provisions to vampires that can’t manage to feed themselves, they have contacts that can discretely help our allies when there are…health problems. Some vampires decide to work for them.”

“But?”

“But they also employ hunters. And I _know_ they’re keeping records of the settled vampires.”

“But Joly trusts them?”

“Joly works _with_ them,” Enjolras says pointedly. “He’s a doctor and heavily involved in the ally network.” He sniffs. “He says working with Sanquin is necessary.”

Grantaire is surprised. Enjolras doesn’t agree with any of this and yet, he is still sitting pretty in this bathroom.

“Their headquarters are right here in the city, but their foot soldiers have been a bit less visibly present since—” He waves his hand vaguely.

“Since you got here,” Grantaire supplies.

“They know they have a willing ear in Joly,” Enjolras says measuredly.

Cheerful, if slightly polite laughter, drifts through the closed door from the living room and Grantaire has to laugh at the expression on Enjolras’ face.

“Your subjects are fraternizing with the enemy.”

Enjolras frowns and Grantaire gives himself a mental kick. Of course he had to push it.

♦

“I would _never_ try to control what any of the others do or do not do.” His voice comes out harsher than Enjolras meant it, but he feels entitled to be upset. Of course he understands perfectly well that Grantaire isn’t happy to be stuck with him, but it is really necessary to make it extra clear?

“It was a joke, man,” Grantaire replies, dropping his gaze.

Enjolras purses his lips. Right, a joke. Well, maybe this Sanquin situation doesn’t matter to Grantaire, but he needn’t joke about it. Enjolras sits down on the edge of the bath tub. “Perhaps we can revisit this discussion when we’re not trapped in a small space,” he says stiffly.

Grantaire makes a vague noise, but doesn’t speak. For a moment he just stands and then he walks to the little window in the corner.

Enjolras is about to take out his phone, but he looks up distractedly when Grantaire starts fiddling with the window. He’s only just tall enough to get it open.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Catching some food,” Grantaire hums. “No reason to be stuck _and_ hungry, right?”

He reaches up to put a hand out of the window and Enjolras sees his eyes close slowly. Jehan did tell him Grantaire was good with animals…

After what seems like less than a minute there is a flutter of wings at the window. Pigeons. Three of them. They land on the windowsill, blinking complacently at Grantaire. He holds out his hand and the first one hops onto his wrist. It’s completely free of fear, which is of course sadly unjustified.

Grantaire turns around, holding the bird out to Enjolras.

Enjolras stares at it and shakes his head.

“Not your taste?” Grantaire asks and there’s just the hint of a sneer in his voice.

Again, Enjolras shakes his head, feeling a little queasy. If Grantaire meant this as a peace offering, he’s missed his mark.

Grantaire shrugs. “Okay.”

He kills the bird quickly, with practiced skill, but Enjolras can tell he’s turning away from him on purpose. That’s considerate of him, he supposes. Enjolras shouldn’t still be looking at him, for his own benefit as well as Grantaire’s, but for some reason he can’t help it. He watches Grantaire drink and it’s just a little too obvious that he does.

Grantaire turns his head to look back at him, mouth smeared with red and Enjolras feels a hungry tug in his insides.

“You sure you don’t want some?” Grantaire says, one corner of his red mouth quirking up. “Or do you have something against birds specifically?”

Enjolras silently shakes his head a second time. He feels odd. The room is small and the smell of blood is very strong. He tries to focus on something else and ends up watching far too intently how Grantaire carefully puts the drained bird down in the sink.

“Yeah, I know,” Grantaire hums, turning his face towards the window where two pigeons are still peering down at him quizzically. “Rats with wings, right?” He snorts. “I don’t care. I drink from rats too, by the way.”

Enjolras looks away. He wasn’t hungry before, but seeing Grantaire feeding is making him want to drink anyway. “Why would it matter?” he mutters, trying not to smell the blood.

“Hm?” Grantaire hums, spitting out some downy feathers.

“Why would it matter, rats, pigeons, cows,” Enjolras says impatiently, turning even more away from him. “It doesn’t make a difference.” There is a difference, of course, but that is a discussion of morality and not one of taste. Or at least not of purity.

“So why won’t you take one?” Grantaire asks.

There’s a couple of soft footsteps and suddenly he’s behind Enjolras.

The smell of blood was strong already, now it’s so strong it makes Enjolras clench his teeth involuntarily.

“Here,” Grantaire says, holding out his hand. “You’re obviously hungry.” The bird perched on his wrist looks like it’s dozing. Jehan wasn’t exaggerating, Grantaire is very good with animals.

Enjolras takes care not to inhale and shakes his head. “I can’t,” he breathes.

“You mean you won’t,” Grantaire smirks. “Cause you’re fussy.” He looks genuinely amused. “Hey, you can afford to be, I don’t—”

“No, I _can’t_ ,” Enjolras snaps.

Grantaire freezes, startled. “Alright then,” he says, softly. He turns around slowly, strokes the pigeon a couple times and carefully puts it back on the windowsill.

Enjolras closes his eyes for a second. He knows he has a temper, but he’s usually much better at keeping it in check. This is the fifth time he’s lost it at Grantaire. He’s keeping track.

“I can’t drink animal blood,” he says in an effort to explain himself.

Grantaire turns around, a frown on his face. “You what? You mean you literally _can’t_?”

“No,” Enjolras grits. “It makes me sick, or violently ill more like. It’s some strongblood, bloodline bullshit.” He looks away. “And before you start up again, I _don’t_ keep allies. Courf makes it work, but—” He shakes his head. He can’t stand the idea of having an ally relationship himself.

“But…I’ve heard you say you don’t hunt,” Grantaire says, a strange sort of caution behind his surprise.

Enjolras looks up and to his astonishment there is genuine concern on Grantaire’s face. He’s looking…apologetic. “I don’t,” Enjolras says stiffly. He really doesn’t want to be having this conversation, but he feels like he has to now.

“So, you…” Grantaire lets his voice trail off.

“I drink from Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, as calmly and matter-of-factly as he can. “Considering their drinking habits that seemed the most…correct way to solve this problem.”

Grantaire looks at him, but there’s no amusement or judgement on his face and Enjolras had really expected both. There is a short silence and then Grantaire runs his hand through his hair and winces slightly.

“Well shit,” he mutters. “I’m sorry for drinking in front of you.”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras says, automatically, but he’s actually too surprised to think of a proper response.

“No, it was a dick move,” Grantaire says with a shake of his head. “I’m an ass.”

He says it like it’s a well-established fact and Enjolras almost smiles.

Grantaire is frowning, looking genuinely uneasy with the situation and Enjolras lets his surprise give way to at least a little satisfaction. His own discomfort is worth it if this was a moment of reflection for Grantaire. Because he’s right, it _was_ kind of a dick move and Enjolras feels he’s allowed to be at least a little smug that—

“You can drink from me if you want.”

Enjolras’ thoughts grind to a frantic halt. He stares at Grantaire. “…what?”

“I mean it,” Grantaire says and he looks it too. “If you’re hungry, I mean.”

For a moment Enjolras thinks he must be joking, but for once Grantaire’s demeanour is all sincerity. “I…” he begins, dumbfounded.

Grantaire physically draws away from him. “Sorry,” he grimaces. “Didn’t mean to freak you out, I know most elders make a really big deal about that sort of stuff, but because you just said—” He laughs awkwardly.

“I- I appreciate the offer,” Enjolras says nervously. “And I’m not freaked out—” That is a blatant lie, he is, but he’s not offended and it seems that Grantaire might think he is. He could never be offended by such an honest offer, but it’s incomprehensible to Enjolras. Grantaire doesn’t even like him and drinking from someone involves _such_ a show of trust.

Grantaire looks uneasy. “Yeah… Alright,” he says. “I just wanted—” He shrugs his shoulders. “Jehan and I drink from each other by the way. It’s not weird. You and Ferre and Courf, I mean.”

“Well, Jehan is your—” Enjolras stops himself, uncertain, and Grantaire smiles vaguely.

 “We don’t really do the sire-fledgling thing,” he says.

Enjolras knows they don’t, but that hadn’t been what he meant. He realizes with sudden confusion that he has no idea how Jehan and Grantaire actually define their relationship and, because he can’t seem to control his thoughts right now, he wonders _how_ they drink from each other. He wonders what exactly Grantaire was even offering just now. Combeferre prefers to make an incision in his arm, Courfeyrac prefers to be bitten on the wrist. Enjolras has never really thought about it that deeply, as far as he’s concerned that is all about their comfort, not his. But now he’s suddenly wondering. About them, about himself, about Jehan, about Grantaire— Enjolras shakes his head sharply and to make the sudden movement less jarring he quickly gets to his feet.

“I appreciate the offer,” he says. He’s repeating himself, but he can’t think of anything better to say. “It’s generous of you. But luckily not necessary. I always make sure not to go hungry. Thank you.”

Grantaire nods. “Well,” he hums. “I’ve managed to make this a gazillion times more awkward it already was, haven’t I?” He grimaces. “What can I say. I have a gift.”

And suddenly, without warning, he gives Enjolras a genuine smile. One of the smiles Enjolras has only seen him give to others. His fangs gleam in his mouth and as his lips part Enjolras can see the red of blood there still. Grantaire’s whole mouth seems red and Enjolras must be more hungry than he thought he was, because the image of him tipping Grantaire’s head back and tasting the blood on his lips is suddenly startlingly vivid in his mind. It’s nearly as startling as the idea of drinking from Grantaire, maybe more so because it makes even less sense. The animal blood on Grantaire’s lips would make him sick, even the smell of it has that repulsive edge to it supplied by the memory of previous experience. But for some reason that doesn’t make the image any less…

“Fuck, am I still bloody?” Grantaire says, wincing again. “I am, aren’t I. Nice going, R.” He gets up quickly and moves away and Enjolras is infinitely grateful.

He realizes he stopped breathing and takes a couple of deep draughts of air. The air is warm and soothing in his lungs.

“Sorry, that should do it,” Grantaire mutters and he sits down again. He still smells like blood, but his mouth is clean now and when Enjolras looks at him he’s relieved to find he feels normal again.

“It’s fine,” he says again and he almost feels like he should be the one apologizing right now.

Grantaire hums, nods vaguely and moves over so he can lean back against the wall as well. Enjolras wonders if silence or conversation would be the best route to restoring some normalcy to this situation.

“Is it…more normal in North America, in-drinking?” he asks. A complete change of subject might have been better, but he can’t think of anything and he’s genuinely interested. He still can’t quite believe Grantaire offered.

“In-drinking?” Grantaire echoes.

“It’s one of the terms used for drinking from another vampire without…deeper emotional implications,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire swallows. “Right.” He looks away.

“I didn’t mean that,” Enjolras says hastily, more to be reassuring than because he’s quite certain what exactly Grantaire is imagining right now. “It’s just. It’s quite a thing to offer to someone you don’t particularly care for.”

Grantaire raises his head and looks at him, first in confusion and then in surprise. “Don’t care for…” he repeats slowly.

“I know you don’t like me,” Enjolras says seriously. “And we don’t really talk much, but—”

“You think I don’t like you?”

Enjolras shuts his mouth. Grantaire is looking at him with such a shocked expression that he’s beginning to feel uncertain again. “But you don’t,” he says slowly.

“I…” Grantaire looks away and shakes his head. “Clearly my social skills are a little out of whack in some departments.” He grimaces at the tile floor. “I can’t seem to open my mouth without offending you. Whenever I try to be nice to it you, it fails.”

Enjolras sits very still, completely thrown and Grantaire looks up at him.

“That bird was meant to a be a nice thing, go figure.”

He sounds almost sad, but Enjolras does not know how to give comfort to someone that he barely knows. Not beyond polite conversations and thinly veiled frustration.

“Sorry I forced you to talk about private drinking habits,” Grantaire mutters.

Enjolras clears his throat, searching for something safe to say. “Feeding is a struggle for most,” he says finally. “Not just me.”

Grantaire nods, slowly, and suddenly volunteers in a rather quiet voice: “I don’t drink from humans. I used to,” he says. “But I don’t anymore.”

The way he says it implies that this decision took some making and how could it not? Enjolras isn’t sure why, but he was certain Grantaire and Jehan were both active hunters. He’s sure Jehan is. Courfeyrac was rather delighted with their methods, dazzling people in dusky clubs, allowing themself to be taken home for the night. Enjolras doesn’t know exactly what he had expected from Grantaire, but not this. Neither the sudden honestly, nor the clear implication that he stopped drinking from humans by choice.

“You thought I hunted like Jehan,” Grantaire says and he sounds wryly amused.

“I suppose I did,” Enjolras admits and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to have a single conversation with Grantaire without his mind scattering in a pattern of frustration and badly phrased accusations.

“And you don’t agree with Jehan’s methods,” Grantaire continues levelly. There is an edge to his voice now that wasn’t there before. Clearly it matters more to him to defend Jehan’s honour than his own.

Enjolras doesn’t want to argue with him and he knows that no matter what he says now, Grantaire will take offence. Unless he lies. Which he refuses to do. “It does not matter if I agree with Jehan’s methods,” he says finally. “They made the best choice for them and they take every care they can not to hurt their donors. That is the best any of us can do.”

There is no immediate answer so Enjolras risks a glance towards Grantaire’s face. His expression is unreadable, but it’s not defensive at least. There is a tense beat of silence, but then Grantaire looks away again and says:

“Jehan can’t bear to drink from animals.”

That is perhaps not very surprising, considering Jehan’s character. Enjolras raises his head. “Is that why you’re so used to in-drinking?” he asks. “Because they don’t drink from animals and you—”

“That’s part of it, I guess,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras nods. He supposes they also just do it to be close. Not that Jehan and Grantaire could get any closer. But then again, maybe he’s wrong about that too. Judging from Grantaire’s reaction just now, he was wrong about most of his intentions at least. ‘ _Whenever I try to be nice to it you it fails_.’

“Grantaire,” he begins, trying to sound as neutral as possible. “When—”

“You are pardoned for your crimes and liberated from your prison!” Bossuet opens the door with a flourish and bows dramatically.

Enjolras clearly hears an audible sigh of relief escape Grantaire.

“What the— Oh man, get that out of here before Joly sees it and disinfects the whole bathroom,” Bossuet whispers, wrinkling his nose at the dead bird.

“Sorry,” Grantaire grins sheepishly. “But where do you propose I get rid of it?”

“Everything okay?” Joly calls from the other room and Bossuet makes a frantic sound.

“I’ll distract him,” Enjolras offers. “I have questions about Sanquin anyway.”

“Bless you,” Bossuet says and Enjolras looks back at Grantaire, who seems both embarrassed and amused.

When they make eye contact, he pulls a face at Enjolras that he is pretty sure is meant to mean something along the lines of “this bird is more trouble than it’s worth”. Enjolras gives him what he hopes is a sympathetic look and hurries out the door.

♦

With the bird slyly disposed of and ample conversation supplied by Joly and Enjolras’ discussion of Sanquin, Grantaire manages to get through the rest of the visit relatively well. Joly is clearly pleased that they actually kept quiet enough to escape detection and there is no sudden change Enjolras’ behaviour to mortify Grantaire.

During the walk back to his own apartment there is ample time for generating mortification though and by the time he arrives home Grantaire feels that there is only one reasonable course of action for him to take. Luckily Jehan is already seated on the couch, which certainly maximizes the effect of Grantaire letting himself fall down on it face first with a suffering groan.

“Good morning,” Jehan says kindly. “Everything alright?”

Grantaire lifts his head just enough to make himself understood when he groans: “Jehan, I can’t be left unsupervised.”

“What happened?” Jehan asks, fingers tangling comfortingly in his hair.

There is no way Grantaire is telling this story while looking them in the eye, but muttering into the couch pillows means he has to say everything at least twice, which is _also_ not ideal. Eventually he sits up and explains, with masochistic levels of detail, what happened between him and Enjolras.

“You offered to _feed_ him?” Jehan gulps, eyes wide.

“I don’t know what I was thinking!” Grantaire laments. “Probably because I _wasn’t_ thinking.”

Jehan is trying very hard not to smile through their sympathetic looks, but they don’t quite manage.

Grantaire gives them a sullen look and lets himself slide hallway down the couch, slouching as badly as he can. “I’m a disaster,” he mutters resentfully.

“A little, yeah,” Jehan says, but very fondly.

Grantaire groans, drags his hands down his face and glanced up at Jehan through his fingers. “He’s so damn intense, Jehan.”

“Yes he is,” they agree.

“Ugh.” Grantaire closes his eyes. He’s not usually this stupid around attractive people, he really isn’t.

Jehan pets his head companionably, but suddenly they let out an amused little sound and ask: “What would you have done if he had said yes?”

Grantaire lowers his hands and gives them a blank stare. “I would have _died_ , Jehan,” he says gravely. “Properly this time.”

Jehan is kind enough to only laugh at that once before mercifully changing the subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sanquin is a real company and since talking with one of the lovely employees from their research department I am increasingly convinced that my imagination might very well be pretty close to the truth…
> 
> This also seems the right time to tell you about how my friend made this chapter some [beautiful art](http://deboracabral.tumblr.com/post/173823424798/the-good-thing-about-tricking-authors-into-being)! <3
> 
> Next chapter will be up on Tuesday. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: discussion on loss of family or breaking with family

To Grantaire’s intense relief Enjolras doesn’t bring up what happened between them the next time they see each other. He does act differently though.

Grantaire is well aware that he looks at Enjolras a bit too much, but now Enjolras frequently looks back. Whenever he talks, especially to someone other than Jehan, Enjolras’ attention seems to be shifting towards him for at least a moment. It’s rather distressing and _extremely_ distracting, but Grantaire is determined not to let it drive him into stunned silence again.

Enjolras thought he _disliked_ him. Grantaire won’t fool himself into thinking he can earn Enjolras’ approval all of a sudden, but he can’t live with the thought that Enjolras thinks Grantaire only tolerates him because of mutual friends. If that is the case the other way round, so be it. But Enjolras can’t be allowed to feel that way. Or, worse, like Grantaire is only here because Jehan likes all of them. No, Grantaire makes as much of an effort as he can to show Enjolras none of that is the case. And at least some of it seems to be working. They’ve managed a couple of meetings without falling out at least.

It’s a start.

♦

Grantaire’s change in behaviour is slight, but Enjolras can tell there is a difference. More than that, he looks at Grantaire differently now. Or at least he tries to. He still doesn’t quite understand. But now, sometimes, just before or after a jarring joke, he sees the uncertainly on Grantaire’s face that was so obvious while they sat side by side on Musichetta’s bathtub. Or he sees that genuine smile again, oddly paired with a comment that on the face of it just sounds rude.

Lately those comments have become rarer however.

Enjolras catches himself looking at Grantaire far too often, trying to match what he sees before him now with the looks and words from their conversation in the bathroom.

Tonight he sees the genuine smile a lot. Perhaps because it’s not a meeting, just friends gathered at their house. It’s been a good night. Jehan and Courfeyrac are still sitting cross-legged on the living-room table and Joly has ended up in Grantaire’s lap at some point during the night. Possibly because Bossuet is sprawled out across Musichetta’s.

Enjolras is rather sorry when people start to talk of going home, but the bustle of the five of them getting ready to leave has become familiar too. Combeferre is the one at the door this time and Grantaire approaches him as if he’ll be the first one to step outside. Instead he opens his backpack and pulls out a folder.

“Here,” he says with a crooked grin, putting it into Combeferre’s hand.

“What’s this?” Combeferre asks with a surprised smile, turning the folder over.

“Part of the rent,” Grantaire says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Enjolras squeezes past Courfeyrac, who is giving Jehan one of his elaborate hugs goodbye, and leans in to see when Combeferre opens the folder. Combeferre makes a soft noise of delight and Enjolras might have done the same if the surprise had not made him silent. The folder is filled with sketches. Some of them hasty scribbles, others fully fleshed-out scenes. Scenes pulled straight out of their lives. Enjolras recognizes the interior of the community centre, their own house, Musichetta’s apartment. And the faces. Not all of them quite true to life, but all of them instantly recognizable. Every paper Combeferre pulls forth is a snapshot of their lives. An illustration of their community.

Enjolras looks from face to face in amazement. The allies make pictures sometimes, even though they show nothing but shadows where their undead friends should be. Joly likes to make voice recordings every now and again, those at least work. But it was always strange. Eerie pictures and disembodied voices. Nothing like the real thing.

This. These drawings. These looks like what it _feels_ like.

“R…” Combeferre says feelingly. “Thank you.”

Enjolras stares at the last leaf of paper. At his own smiling face surrounded by all his friends. He swallows. He can hear Grantaire talking to Combeferre, but he can’t listen. He wants to take the drawings out of Combeferre’s hands and spread them out on the table, look at them all in a single glance.

He doesn’t come to his senses until goodbyes are being called out and then he’s sorry there is no opportunity to thank Grantaire in person. Because Enjolras feels like he should.

“What did R mean about this being part of the rent?” Enjolras asks when everyone has gone. Courfeyrac is fawning over the drawings now, putting them side by side on the table as he studies each one, just like Enjolras had wanted to.

“Oh,” Combeferre smiled. “Grantaire and Jehan protested against the rent being too low. I explained that what they brought to the community was more important to me.”

Community. Enjolras looks at the drawings. Grantaire isn’t in them of course, but he’s a nearly tangible presence behind the paper. In a corner. Observing everyone and everything. Enjolras feels suddenly guilty and he does not even really know for what. He also feels proud and that makes even less sense.

“What a talent,” Courfeyrac sighs. “Oh, Ferre, look at us.”

Combeferre laughs fondly, studying a quick sketch of himself and Courfeyrac crushed together into a single chair and Enjolras considers that Combeferre rarely sees his own face. Enjolras still has pictures of himself and Courfeyrac has several portraits, but Combeferre has no interests in that sort of thing. As far as Enjolras knows the only likeness of him is a small miniature painted by a clever German artist Combeferre and Courfeyrac met with on their travels. It was a present for Courfeyrac and he takes it with him whenever his wanderlust drives him abroad.

“We must get at least some of them framed,” Combeferre says decidedly.

“Absolutely,” Courfeyrac agrees. He shakes his head. “It’s always a bit weird to talk about luck with people who didn’t really choose this life. But gosh we are lucky to have R.”

Enjolras had been lost in looking at one of the smaller sketches again, Jehan and Courfeyrac’s very demeanour and energy caught in a few hasty lines, but those words cut right through his happy admiration.

“Surely his turning was consensual?” he says. The few times he has heard Grantaire talk about his past it was in an extremely dismissive way and all his other stories are about Jehan. It had never occurred to Enjolras that Grantaire didn’t come to this life willingly.

“No, necessitous I‘m afraid,” Courfeyrac hums. “They’re very open about it,” he says immediately, as if to defend his speaking of it at all. “R got pretty badly hurt.”

“How,” Enjolras asks, a little too sharply. There is suddenly an unpleasant knot in his stomach.

“During a rally or something like it,” Courfeyrac says sympathetically. “Gay rights. You know, the nineteen eighties.”

He says it with a generalizing sweep of the hand that makes Enjolras frown. Courfeyrac and Combeferre sometimes have a slightly too blasé approach towards the struggles of society. Perhaps that comes with being able to remember literal centuries of them, but Enjolras doesn’t like it. Rallies for gay rights are not ‘something of the nineteen eighties’. He sobers a little. He hadn’t considered them something of Grantaire’s either. It suddenly occurs to him he knows very little of Grantaire’s background.

“He got so badly hurt Jehan turned him?” he mutters.

“Not entirely on purpose it seems,” Courfeyrac hums and Combeferre grimaces. “R jokes about it, but Jehan got quite emotional talking about it,” Courfeyrac confides. He sighs fondly. “You know how these creative souls are. Sensitive.”

“I do indeed,” Combeferre hums, glancing amusedly at Courfeyrac. “It baffles my cold scientific heart.”

All Courfeyrac’s attention is immediately diverted. “What a good thing you have me to warm it up for you,” he coos and he wraps his arms around Combeferre’s neck, leaning heavily on his shoulders.

Enjolras leaves the room on quiet feet. Two hundred years. His friends met more than two hundred years ago and they’re still like this. And he had thought finding a partner for an entire human life was an improbability.

He thinks of Jehan, all kindness and determined love towards the world and of Grantaire, all loudness and disrespecting jokes, but…devoted to Jehan. And Jehan devoted to him. They were friends while Grantaire was still human… Jehan had turned him to save him and Grantaire had stayed with Jehan.

Enjolras feels terribly uncomfortable all of a sudden. What had Courfeyrac just said? Jehan being emotional, because of creative souls. But Grantaire is a creative soul too. Enjolras thinks of the drawings, the music, the devotion that must be poured into the mastering of an instrument and hesitates. Enjolras is not musical, he feels music more than he understands it. Courfeyrac had said Jehan was emotional about Grantaire’s turning, but that Grantaire had joked about it.

Because Grantaire jokes about everything.

Grantaire makes people _laugh_ , Enjolras realizes with sudden clarity. He ignores what is before him, ignores the gravity of the situation, in favour of good humour. That is the thing. Enjolras has always known Grantaire’s behaviour was intentional. And was right about that. But maybe it’s not the kind of intention he thought it was. Maybe Grantaire doesn’t ignore these things because he doesn’t care, but because— Grantaire _always_ manages to make people laugh.

Enjolras glances back at the living room. There is a distinct lack of talking, which means Courfeyrac’s mouth is otherwise occupied. His friends won’t miss him any time soon. He grabs his phone and keys and heads out the door.

♦

The sudden knock on the door takes Grantaire by surprise, because he’s really not expecting anyone at this hour, but he still hurries to answer it. Jehan went to bed early and he doesn’t want them to be woken up.

Whatever expectation he might have formed between jumping to his feet and opening the door, Enjolras standing on his doorstep frowning earnestly was definitely not part of it.

“Hi,” Enjolras says immediately and to Grantaire’s relief he doesn’t sound upset. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the undertone in his voice was nervousness.

“Eh, hi.” Grantaire takes an uncertain step back. “Do you want to come in?”

“Yes, thank you,” Enjolras nods and no, he definitely sounds nervous.

Grantaire closes the door behind him, thrown thoroughly off balance by all this, and wonders if he should invite Enjolras through to the living room to sit down, when Enjolras suddenly turn around to face him and says:

“I think I’ve been really unfair to you.”

Grantaire’s brain does not process that sentence immediately – he is still partly preoccupied with the fact that Enjolras is in his house, staring at him with all of his intensity – and he hasn’t even come close to formulating an answer before Enjolras starts talking again. He’s talking rather fast and he’s saying a lot, but Grantaire is pretty sure – amazingly – that he’s trying to _apologise_.

Firstly for thinking Grantaire didn’t take anything seriously, which is weird because he doesn’t. Then for thinking he didn’t like him, which is also weird, because it’s hardly Enjolras’ fault if Grantaire is an idiot in social situations. And then for dismissing his contributions to the meetings as intentionally antagonistic, which is just embarrassing, because Grantaire wasn’t aware he had even _made_ any real contributions, antagonistic or otherwise.

“I know I’m rambling,” Enjolras cuts himself off rather suddenly. “But. What I’m trying to say is I’m sorry. I treated you unfairly because of unfounded assumptions. Please accept my apology.”

Grantaire runs a hand through his hair. He kind of wants to laugh. “You came all the way over here just before daybreak to tell me that?” he says incredulously.

Enjolras raises his head in surprise. “It’s not that near sunrise, is it?”

“Already close when you arrived, certainly is now,” Grantaire says.

“Oh…” Enjolras sounds embarrassed. That was not Grantaire’s intention.

“But, I mean, apology accepted, of course,” he says hastily. “I don’t think you really had anything to apologize for, but—”

“No, I did,” Enjolras says earnestly. He frowns. “I think I rambled around a bit too long thinking about it. It wasn’t late yet when I left.”

Grantaire nods. The sun will be up by now, properly. He could offer to loan Enjolras some clothes to go home, but he doubts they’ll have anything that will fit him properly. Enjolras is taller than both him and Jehan. It would be dangerous.

“Do you want to call an ally to come pick you up?” he asks uncertainly. “Or…you can stay here if you like. Jehan’s already gone to bed. We don’t have a guest room, but…I can take the couch.” Grantaire winces internally, but ‘I can take the couch’ is at least more neutral than ‘you can sleep in my bed’.

Enjolras makes a conflicted noise, but suddenly he looks up. “What did you mean I had nothing to apologize for?”

Clearly this conversation is not done. Well, apparently this is happening, so he might as well make the most of it. Grantaire gestures to the open living room door and Enjolras walks on through.

“Oh wow,” Enjolras says looking up at the walls filled with sprawling colours. “I didn’t know you painted murals.”

“Neither did I,” Grantaire hums. Jehan had asked for plants. He had done his best.

“It’s beautiful,” Enjolras says and Grantaire wishes he would stop phrasing compliments like they are objective facts for the world to comply with, because he can feel it pressing on his chest.

Enjolras sits down on the couch. “So are your drawings. They’re amazing.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says awkwardly, sitting down as well.

“I didn’t think you really cared about...all that,” Enjolras says, eyes still fixed on him with genuine attention. “I shouldn’t have presumed.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Are you kidding?” he grimaces slightly. “What you guys have here, an actual _community_ , a home… It’s amazing.” He really means that. “Anyone would want to be a part of that. Even if I’m not used to it.”

Enjolras is silent, but clearly listening for more explanation.

“I’m not…” Grantaire struggles, he’s still new to this actually talking to Enjolras thing. The next thing out of his mouth may be the beginning of a new misunderstanding. “It’s been just me and Jehan for a long time,” he starts uncertainly. “The community thing is new for me. I mean—” He tries for a grin. “I’ve always liked company, but I didn’t really make any friends that…lasted.”

To his surprise, Enjolras smiles rather sadly. “Me neither,” he says.

A silence follows during which Grantaire feels distinctly like he is suspended in a rare moment of time that perhaps wasn’t meant to happen. Enjolras, with everything that he is, sitting on his couch, looking thoughtfully at the carpet.

“I always wondered if it would do any good to go back,” Enjolras muses, breaking the silence. “I’m not the same as I was then, perhaps I’d be able to deal with it better now. Speak my mind to my family.”

Grantaire is faintly amused by the notion of Enjolras not speaking his mind, but he gets the sentiment and it’s not a particularly cheerful one. “I’m never going back,” he mutters. “My family knows I left the country, that’s about it.”

“Mine probably thinks I’m dead,” Enjolras says. “Or, well, you know what I mean.”

Grantaire snorts appreciatively, but then looks up, thoughts clashing for a moment. “Wait… Your family is alive?”

Enjolras looks at him. “I haven’t checked up on them lately, but yeah, they should be. My parents at least.”

Grantaire opens and closes his mouth wordlessly. It’s like he’s seeing Enjolras for the first time. The tattered jeans, the washed-out t-shirt… “You’re not an elder,” he blurts out.

Enjolras eyes widen. “You thought I was?”

“Of course I did!” Grantaire splutters. “You’re—” He gestures wildly. “Jesus, fuck, what did they feed you to make you this strong? I thought all three of you were elders!”

Enjolras’ face brightens into a faint smile. “Well…that makes some of your jokes a bit less weird.”

“Oh my god,” Grantaire groans, tipping his head back and Enjolras laughs, struggling to keep his voice down. Grantaire looks back up. “When were you turned?” It’s too forward a question, but he feels entitled to ask by the sheer embarrassment of the moment.

“Nineteen ninety-eight,” Enjolras says with a smile.

Grantaire gapes. “You’re ten years _younger_ than me?”

Enjolras bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “You really didn’t know? Courf makes baby jokes all the time.”

“Courf says a lot of things,” Grantaire dismisses. He is still trying to wrap his head around all this.

“My sire was a multiple generation strongblood,” Enjolras says, probably by way of explanation.

“No shit,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. “They made sure you turned out strong, jeez.”

Enjolras’ face falls.

Grantaire looks at him. Shit, of course he had to say _something_ wrong. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s fine,” Enjolras says and after a moment he adds bluntly: “My sire’s a piece of shit.”

The laugh that escapes Grantaire’s throat is half nerves, half genuine hilarity and to his intense relief Enjolras grins.

“He really is though,” he insists and the grin turns to something sharp. “An elitist, murderous asshole.”

Enjolras’ aversion to hunting is beginning to make sense in the most painful way. “I believe you,” Grantaire says solemnly.

Enjolras expression turns sober again too. He gives Grantaire an apologetic look. “I think…I think I was jealous seeing you and Jehan.”

Grantaire stays silent for fear of saying the wrong thing again, though he can’t keep the surprise out of his expression.

“Hardly any have that good a relationship with our sires,” Enjolras explains. “Not even Ferre, and he and Kobus stay in contact all the time.”

It had never occurred to Grantaire that Enjolras might have been turned violently. He has never met a strongblood who was. Apparently his dismay shows on his face, because Enjolras grimaces and says:

“I agreed to be turned, I was just…mistaken about my sire’s character.” His expression softens. “Courf told me you were hurt, that it wasn’t a choice for you…” He sounds apologetic about bringing it up.

Grantaire shrugs. “Honestly, I would have chosen to be turned,” he says, just like he has assured Jehan countless times by now. “Jehan was the best thing in my life even then and like I said, my family really doesn’t give a fuck.”

Enjolras hums and Grantaire wonders if he’s deliberately swallowing questions or honestly not curious enough to ask more. He doesn’t mind either way, but he hopes Enjolras knows that he would answer him, whatever he had to ask.

“Maybe it’s better this way,” Enjolras says thoughtfully. “To be in our situation I mean. Courf and Ferre, they still miss their families.”

Grantaire nods. He has heard Courfeyrac talk about it. Combeferre is more private. Grantaire has heard him mention his family only once, in connection with the delicate circumstances of having inherited a small fortune made by the East-India Company while having an Indonesian mother. Something that of course had everything to do with his Dutch family’s involvement in the trade.

“Courf went back to see them,” Enjolras says softly, his eyes tracing the patterns of leaves on the opposite wall. “Just in time to still see his mother. He pretended to be his own son. Apologized for running away.”

Grantaire restricts his answer to a soft, sympathetic noise. He’s thinking of Courfeyrac and his family, but he’s also watching Enjolras. The unfamiliar traces of sadness flickering on his beautiful face.

“Ferre just stayed here, of course,” he continues. “He managed to keep his family in the dark, got to see them live their lives…”

He doesn’t finish that thought and Grantaire knows why. Enjolras looks at him.

“Is Jehan…?”

“They don’t keep in touch either,” Grantaire shakes his head.

Enjolras nods. “I guessed as much.”

He sounds too sad about it though, so Grantaire says: “They make a good story out of it. Running away into the dark, away from the atrocities committed in the daylight.”

Enjolras smiles, but only thinly. “Didn’t really work out for me,” he mutters, but before Grantaire can be upset with himself, he asks: “Do you know anything about French vampire culture?”

“Not really,” Grantaire confesses.

Enjolras turns a little more towards him, slouching into the cushions of the couch, and Grantaire mirrors his posture.

“It’s…hierarchal,” Enjolras says. “My sire made use of that. He was good with words, painted a very convincing picture of—” He gestures vaguely. “—being a leader. He wanted to train me, give me an opportunity to _fulfil my potential_.” The words come out bitter and sneering, which makes the defeated sentence that follows all the more jarring. “…and I jumped at the chance. I had no idea what I was getting into.”

Grantaire listens without interruption, but the more Enjolras tells about the French strongbloods the more he wonders how Enjolras ever managed to still be who he is. Especially because from the sound of it Enjolras was only twenty one when he broke with his family and ran into his sire. There is a jaded look behind the blue of Enjolras’ eyes when he recounts the training he received and Grantaire wonders if Enjolras’ obsession with doing right by humans is some form of atonement. As far as he is concerned the only one that needs to atone is the bastard that poured his blood down Enjolras’ throat.

“I don’t think it ever occurred to him that he had made me strong enough to go against him,” Enjolras says, a slight sneer in his voice. He sinks into silence after that, but this time Grantaire needs to ask.

“How did you get away?”

Enjolras grimaces. “He made me for a reason, he was growing bored with modernity, felt like sleeping though a century or two. I was supposed to look after him. Instead I just left.”

Grantaire whistles between his teeth. Only strongblood elders have the strength to survive without feeding, even in a dormant state. But even they are not capable of waking up on their own. Eventually they’ll starve.

“Good,” he says and he means it.

The shake of the head that Enjolras gives is bitter. “I just left,” he repeats. “Like a coward. Didn’t try to fix any of it.”

Grantaire gives him a long look. He tries to imagine Enjolras as a youngling. A brilliant, strongblood youngling, convinced to high heaven that it’s up to him to make amends for ills that have festered for millennia. “You began your fixing here,” he says.

“Ferre and Courf were already influential here,” Enjolras says. “They took me in. I owe all of this to them.”

“Yeah…” Grantaire hums. “I’m sure that’s why everyone comes to you when anything shitty goes down.”

There’s no answer.

“Chetta told me you stood up for her like hell when she and the guys first moved in here,” Grantaire tries again. “Said she only settled here because of you.”

“Dutch vampire culture has always been very ally-centric,” Enjolras replies. “It has to be. The country is too small to disappear easily, for vampires as well as for…victims.”

“Allies like Courf has them maybe,” Grantaire points out. “Not like Joly and Bossuet.”

“The younger generation here was really open-minded already,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire smirks. “And you got rid of the older generation. Personally.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer that, but his mouth moves like he’s almost smiling.

And because they’re apparently baring their souls this morning, Grantaire says softly: “I didn’t think having a home like this was possible. The settled communities we’ve seen up close… They weren’t like this. Sometimes it looked like it on the surface, but it never was.”

Enjolras is looking at him attentively.

“I thought Amsterdam would be the same,” Grantaire confesses. “And I thought you were three strongblood elders holding court.” He grimaces. “Which is why I behaved like an ass the first time we met. I never said sorry for that by the way. …sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Enjolras protests. “I turned my Presence on you.” He sounds genuinely astonished and Grantaire gives him an incredulous smile.

“Yeah, because I provoked you on purpose. I deserved it.”

“You didn’t,” Enjolras says strongly.

Grantaire winces. “I—”

“Even if you meant to provoke me you didn’t deserve that,” Enjolras interrupts. “I should never have done it.”

There is so much contrition in his voice that Grantaire sits upright. “Dude, no, I can’t deal with people feeling guilty about what they’ve done to me through no fault of their own.”

“But it was—”

“I already get that from Jehan,” Grantaire cuts in. “And they will tell you that feeling guilty towards me is a really thankless task, all it does is make me more annoying. Really, I don’t recommend it.”

Enjolras shuts his mouth, looking somewhere between amused and uncertain. Good, Grantaire can work with that.

“It comes with really nasty side effects too,” he continues. “Like me making _really_ stupid jokes about the subject in an awkward attempt to use humour to mask discomfort and you being subjected to my distracting rambling whenever someone else brings it up. Trust me, it’s a bad gig.”

Finally, Enjolras smiles and god it’s a relief. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll drop the guilt, but only if you do too.”

“That’s a compromise I can live with,” Grantaire says solemnly.

Enjolras laughs and it’s like the room is suddenly filled with sunshine. Amazingly, there is also music. It takes Grantaire a moment to realize it’s Enjolras’ phone. Enjolras seems taken by surprise too, fumbling to answer it. Grantaire can just hear Courfeyrac’s voice come through the speakers.

“Enj, where on earth have you got to?”

“Courf, sorry,” Enjolras says apologetically. “I forgot the time. I’m at R and Jehan’s place.”

Grantaire isn’t sure, but he gets the distinct feeling that that was the first time Enjolras has ever used the abbreviation of his name.

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “Well, if she wouldn’t mind that would be wonderful, yes. Thank you.” There is a short pause. “Okay, see you in a bit then.” He puts the phone down and gives Grantaire a slightly sheepish look. “One of Courf’s allies is coming to pick me up.”

“One of his mistresses you mean,” Grantaire grins and he must admit he’s relieved that there is a normal, acceptable way to get Enjolras home. Not that he wants him to go, but… the idea of having him stay here all day is nothing short of nerve-wracking.

“Yes,” Enjolras rolls his eyes smilingly. “One of his mistresses.”

“I still can’t believe they have weekly tea parties,” Grantaire laughs, struggling to modulate his voice.

Courfeyrac’s ‘arrangements’ will always be hilarious to him. Courfeyrac’s rather romantic French traditionalism (and very particular taste) had led him to take on several allies instead of drinking animal blood like Combeferre. They are all women, either by accident or design, and Courfeyrac exclusively refers to them as his mistresses, while Grantaire knows for a fact that they address _him_ with a variety of endearments. Combeferre informed Grantaire that this was where the Dutch sensibilities had met with the French. Because each of Courfeyrac’s mistresses, while quite happy to be in a mutually beneficial arrangement with as charming and considerate a person as Courfeyrac, was also quick to conclude that she couldn’t be the only one that had taken his offer. This had led to some short-lived embarrassment on Courfeyrac’s side, followed by a number of cheerful introductions, a properly arranged visitation schedule and a set date for a weekly get-together for the women, to which Courfeyrac was explicitly not invited. To be honest, Grantaire is delighted that he finally has the opportunity to meet one of these infamous women.

Enjolras grins at him. “They send Courf a selfie sometimes, just to let him know they’re gossiping about him.”

“Amazing,” Grantaire says, trying to sound as full of awe as he can.

Enjolras’ ride arrives not long after. Armed with sunglasses, a blanket and an umbrella to usher him safely to her car. Grantaire introduces himself with a flourish, learns her name is Margriet – which Enjolras can pronounce, but Grantaire certainly can’t – and is smugly amused to find that she is every bit as blonde and beautiful as he had hoped. Courfeyrac is a delightful stereotype. She is also bossing Enjolras around, which is as bewildering as it is amazing to behold.

“Just a minute,” Enjolras begs, adding something in Dutch before turning to Grantaire and saying: “I’m sorry for barging in on your morning, but I’m glad we talked.”

“Ditto,” Grantaire nods.

Enjolras smiles, hesitates and asks: “Can I hug you goodbye?”

So Grantaire leans down and ends this extremely strange morning with a careful hug and a very sincere “sleep well then” from Enjolras, and a rather amused smile from Margriet, who manages to be rosy-cheeked as well as blue-eyed and yet pales in comparison next to the man she is wrapping expertly in a heavy blanket.

Grantaire cannot watch them go without running the risk of being sunblind the rest of the day, but he honestly considers it for a moment. In the end he decides against it, if only because it would probably upset Enjolras.

He doesn’t go to bed though after they’ve left.

He starts on another drawing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a Big Turning Point and boy was I eager to get past it!
> 
> The “Dutch East India Company” (Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie) is the trading company that basically created the Dutch Golden Age during the seventeenth century by engaging in some clever trading and a lot of nasty, icky things including but not limited to environmental destruction and slavery. Because of the very liberal and humane culture on Dutch _home_ soil, however, it was not unheard of for rich traders to bring people back home from the countries they ‘visited’ and interracial marriages, though still rare, were seen as exciting rather than taboo. To be the child of such a marriage seemed to me the most solid backstory for a Dutch Combeferre born in 1598.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: consensual biting and drinking, making a cut to drink instead of biting, alcohol use, mention of death.
> 
> Also, this seems about the right time in the character development to introduce the song I have come to associate with this story: [Neon Trees’ “Animal”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=chJgaksG4sg&ab_channel=mathew349), as suggested by my extremely patient friend Amanda, who supplies me with endless inspirational music <3

Enjolras’ friendship is no less intense than his disapproval. Rather more so. Grantaire is not about to object, he wouldn’t dare, but he is beginning to wonder if he hasn’t inadvertently made things more difficult for himself. Because now Enjolras comes to talk to him, sit with him, looks at him with those earnest eyes. And whenever he doesn’t understand or disagrees with something Grantaire says, he doesn’t just shrug it off anymore. He frowns and _questions_ him.

“How dare the universe combine all… _that_ , in one person,” Grantaire mutters indignantly when he and Jehan walk home after the latest meeting.

“All he did was talk about music,” Jehan says amusedly.

Grantaire makes a weak sound. He is well aware of that. He will need at least a week to recover from the experience of Enjolras warmly defending the merits of Nirvana. He had not been prepared for that in any way.

“What are you two whispering about?” Musichetta chimes, closing the distance between them by dragging Joly and Bossuet towards them. Walking like this they're blocking the entire street, but luckily there are no other people around to inconvenience.

“Nothing, Chetta,” Jehan says cheerfully. “R is being dramatic is all.”

“Hmm,” she hums fondly. She puts an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and he leans into her side affectionately, making both their steps falter for a couple paces.

“You know what,” Musichetta says and Grantaire feels her fingers pluck at his hair. “You should let me give you a haircut.”

“No,” Grantaire says immediately, but Jehan makes an approving sound.

“Come on, when’s the last time you had a haircut?” she demands.

Grantaire frowns. He honestly doesn’t know. But he _likes_ his hair.

“In ninety-four,” Jehan says. “After you set it on fire.”

“I singed _one_ lock,” Grantaire protests.

Joly and Bossuet are demanding to hear the story, but Musichetta says decidedly:

“You have glorious hair, R. And I won’t cut it short like Ferre’s, but let me clean it up a bit. It’ll make a world of difference. Trust me.”

♦

“ _Mon Dieu!_ Chetta, how much do I owe you?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but patiently allows Courfeyrac to take him by the shoulders and turn him left and right to admire his shorter curls.

Musichetta laughs triumphantly and for some reason Enjolras does not quite understand she addresses him when she proudly says: “It looks good, right?”

“Very good,” he says, because it does.

“Yeah, yeah, may I be excused now, please?” Grantaire says with a particularly longsuffering expression and Courfeyrac tuts at him.

“Triumphs of style must be celebrated, _mon ami_ ,” he says. “And you look _great_.”

For a moment Enjolras sees the genuine smile flash in Grantaire’s eyes. “Thanks,” he mutters and Enjolras is distracted enough to be caught off guards when a moment later Combeferre hurries into the meeting room to speak to him.

“We have some visitors today, Enjolras,” he announces urgently. “Younglings from Rotterdam. It seems Myriel pointed them in our direction. I do wish they had called ahead, but—”

“No, no, walk-ins are always welcome,” Enjolras says decidedly and he walks out to greet them. Rotterdam has a high vampire presence, lots of transients too, he’s grateful for all Charles Myriel’s efforts to keep the community there supportive.

When he comes back, the unexpected guests in tow, Grantaire is sitting in his usual corner, this time with his sketchbook clearly visible on his knee. He has stopped trying to it ever since he shared his first drawings. Enjolras smiles at him and he gets a grin back. A warm one.

Enjolras starts the meeting with a smile.

♦

“Can I see?” Jehan asks and Grantaire hums pushing the sketchbook towards them. He’s working on a digital piece on his tablet, a commission. Nothing that pays as well as the portraits he used to paint back in the states, but a lot less hassle and a lot more fun.

“Oh I like that one,” Jehan says cheerfully, turning to page towards Grantaire for a moment to show him they’re looking at a sketch of Musichetta carrying Joly in her arms to deposit him in a nearby chair.

Grantaire smiles.

“Are you gonna show me the one you did of Enjolras too?” Jehan asks innocently and Grantaire drops his smile.

“Let me have my pathetic crush in peace,” he grunts.

Jehan makes a soft sound and sits down beside him. “At this point I don’t think it’s just crushing anymore, R.”

Grantaire blinks at his screen. “What?” he asks, against his better judgement.

“You and Enjolras,” Jehan says. “Going early to meetings, staying behind after hang-outs, that’s not just crushing.”

Grantaire tries very hard to think of anything to say to deny this, but he literally can’t.

Jehan laughs. “You’re not going to freak out are you, like you did when you were sweet on that girl back in Chicago?”

“I was not _sweet_ on Floréal!”

“I didn’t even say her name.”

Grantaire groans and puts his tablet away. “That was a setup,” he says accusingly.

“Am I wrong?” Jehan asks with a smile. They scoot a little closer. “Hey, you know it’s alright, right?”

“It’s not alright,” Grantaire says darkly. “It’s tragic at best.”

“I’ve never seen you quite so fond before, R,” Jehan says warmly. “It makes me happy. Don’t make that into a bad thing.”

Grantaire looks up at him, deciding to ignore most of the feelings he has about that statement. “Stop being supportive,” he says. “I’m trying to sulk.”

Jehan laughs and wraps their arms around his neck. “You don’t have to do anything, of course,” they say, leaning their head against his. “But have you ever considered just asking him out?”

No, Grantaire has not considered that. Mostly because in the beginning he genuinely didn’t want to do anything of the sort. He was quite happy being in awe of Enjolras from afar. Lately it’s been different of course, but he’s barely used to hearing Enjolras refer to him as his friend. Not at all used to the fact that hugs are a normal greeting now. The thought of asking him _out_ is…

“I’m only saying because…I don’t think Enjolras is particularly occupied with things like that,” Jehan says. “He might not even know it’s an option unless you show him that it is.”

Grantaire swallows. Maybe it being an option doesn’t occur to Enjolras for very good reasons.

“Should I not have brought this up?” Jehan asks softly, breaking a very long silence.

It’s beyond Grantaire to find an answer for that, but all he needs to do is make sure Jehan knows he appreciates them, so he wraps his arms around their waist and buries his face against their shoulder. Jehan knows him too well and Grantaire knows they’re right, this stopped being a crush as soon as Enjolras gave him a shot at actually being his friend. But Jehan is right about Enjolras too, it’s pretty clear that Combeferre and Courfeyrac have been the only people he’s allowed such a steady presence in his life. And Grantaire can’t imagine what right he has to presume he would be an exception.

♦

In the seventeen years he’s been undead Enjolras has had to deal with a lot of sensations that frightened him when he experienced them for the first time. At the very beginning his sire talked him through them, sometimes with lessons Enjolras now loathes to remember, but ever since he has been on his own, he has managed to deal with them on his own. Courfeyrac and Combeferre have taught him a lot of course, he had still been a youngling when he met them, but it had been them volunteering information more than him asking for it. What he’s going through now is worrying though and he _wants_ to ask his friends for their opinion. He just doesn’t quite know how.

“Enjolras?”

The sound barely reaches him and he doesn’t look up until Courfeyrac says his name a second time.

“Hm?” he mutters vaguely. “Sorry, what?”

“What’s the matter with you, Enj, you’re miles away,” Courfeyrac says. “It’s not like you.”

“I—” Enjolras shakes his head.

Now Courfeyrac’s expression truly turns a little concerned. Enjolras is aware of Combeferre’s eyes also, glancing just over the top of his book in his direction. Now his friends are going to worry, no matter what he does.

“You don’t have to talk about it, of course,” Courfeyrac says cautiously. “But if something is bothering you…”

“There is something, actually,” Enjolras says, but he’s still unsure how to approach this.

He has both of his friends’ full attention by now though, so he presses on.

“Have you ever felt the need to…drink a _specific_ kind of blood?”

That is as neutral as he can phrase this. None of the words seem quite right to express what he’s experiencing, but he doesn’t know how to explain it better without giving away far too much. He cannot mention Grantaire’s name, it wouldn’t be fair to involve him in this. After all he has done nothing to cause this. And Enjolras _doesn’t_ want him to know.

Courfeyrac blinks at him in surprise for a moment, but then smiles fondly. “But of _course_.” He sighs. “You know, I am certain you can taste elegance in someone’s blood. Creativity too. When I’m low, I _crave_ creativity.” He gets to his feet. “Oh, but is that it, _ami_. Are you hungry? I’m sure we have something bottled.”

Enjolras doesn’t stop him, even if it means Courfeyrac is going to offer him the blood one of his mistresses donated and that still makes Enjolras slightly uncomfortable. He watches Courfeyrac go with conflicted relief. Perhaps it is just as well that he doesn’t understand.

“Enjolras—”

Enjolras looks at Combeferre. He has closed his book.

“Is this about a specific _person_?” Combeferre looks concerned and attentive and Enjolras knows he’ll make it a point to get him to talk about this, either now or later.

He stops breathing to steady himself, and nods.

Combeferre sighs. “In that case,” he says seriously. “I advise you to stay away from them.”

Enjolras nods again. That is certainly the most sensible course of action. Except he _can’t_.

“I know it’s hard,” Combeferre says feelingly and when Enjolras doesn’t answer he adds: “From experience.”

Enjolras lifts up his eyes in surprise and Combeferre smiles faintly. “I’m not fully convinced of all Courf’s theories,” he says. “But there must be something to it. There must be some…inherent qualities in blood that make it attractive. But, it is dangerous.” He gives Enjolras a sober look. “I’ve seen people turned or drained in situations like this.”

Enjolras blinks. Combeferre thinks this is about a human. His relief is mixed with a tinge of nausea. For some reason feeling like this about a human seems even worse.

“It’s rare though,” Combeferre says reassuringly. “I’ve met only two humans who had that effect on me in nearly four centuries and I managed not to act on it both times.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say. He admires his friend’s restraint and appreciates his advice, but he fears that the situations are not directly comparable. He knows what if feels like to be hungry, starved even. He even knows what it’s like to want to drink someone dry, even if he really wishes he could forget. But this doesn’t feel like that. In the end he just nods and mutters: “Good.”

“And I have reason to believe that it’s at least somewhat linked to age,” Combeferre continues, his tone shifting slightly as he gets distracted by the imparting of knowledge rather than the giving of advice. “Both times occurred in my first century.”

Well, that at least _is_ somewhat comforting.

Combeferre smiles. “It is good of you to be so aware of yourself.”

Enjolras can’t quite repress the grimace that involuntarily overtakes his face.

“But it fades,” Combeferre promises him. His smile changes a little and he adds: “It’s been centuries since I’ve craved anyone’s blood but Courfeyrac’s.”

The thoughts in Enjolras’ mind freeze in place. Courfeyrac.

There is a burst of singing from the stairwell, signalling his friend’s return, and Enjolras looks at Combeferre. At the way his head raises slightly, at the way his smile bares his fangs _just_ a little. He thinks of the way Courfeyrac buries his face in Combeferre’s neck when he thinks they are out of sight from others… And then he thinks of Grantaire, of his smile, of the faintest hint of red in the corners of his mouth…and panics.

♦

“Well, that’s a cheerful sight.”

Grantaire raises his hand to wave at the newly arrived Bossuet without lifting his head. He’s installed next to Joly on the couch, face-down. It’s become a rather popular position lately.

“He’s fine,” Joly says and Grantaire hears the sound of an _almost_ chaste kiss being exchanged. “He’s just sulking because Jehan is out feeding tonight.”

“Oh?” Bossuet says, with an amused edge to his voice that Grantaire absolutely doesn’t trust. “It’s not because Enjolras wasn’t at the meeting yesterday?”

There it is.

Joly lets out a badly stifled laugh and Grantaire sits up, looking at them in dismay. “You are both bad friends,” he proclaims. “The least you can do is _pretend_ not to notice what a mess I am.”

“When it comes to you and Enjolras that would take an awful lot of pretending,” Bossuet says smoothly.

“That’s it, I’m leaving,” Grantaire announces and he tries to get to his feet.

“No, no,” Joly laughs, catching him by his arm. “Come here.”

Grantaire allows himself to be pulled back onto the couch and into a mollifying hug.

“You’re getting along really well lately, though,” Joly says encouragingly, letting him go so he can sit up normally.

“I know,” Grantaire groans. “Torture.”

Bossuet laughs sympathetically, sitting down on his other side. “I’m guessing telling you to talk to him isn’t going to work?”

Grantaire makes a nondescript sound. He’s considered it. And he’s decided against it. Vehemently.

“Hm,” Bossuet hums, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Well, I know something we could do.”

“What’s that,” he says, leaning into Bossuet’s warmth.

“Get drunk.”

“Well, that would certainly be nostalgic,” Grantaire laughs, but his laugh fades when he sees Bossuet’s wide grin. He raises his eyebrows. “You’re kidding, right?” he says.

“Oh no, I’m not,” Bossuet grins. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to open that bottle of Amaretto for ages and it’s rude not to share.”

Grantaire knows – from very limited personal experience and from Jehan’s rather colourful stories – that it’s possible to feel the effects of alcohol if the person you’re drinking from has a high enough blood alcohol concentration. He’s definitely never heard allies refer to it as ‘sharing’ though, not to mention that he’s never heard of anyone other than Musichetta drinking from Joly and Bossuet.

Bossuet meanwhile is making eyes at Joly, who is looking doubtful. “Come on, Joly,” he coaxes.

Joly looks from Bossuet’s wide grin to Grantaire’s bemused smile and gives in. “Ah alright,” he says, giving an agreeing nod. “It’s a Friday.”

“Yes!” Bossuet cheers and he bounces to his feet.

“You do know I’d be happy to just laugh at you two, right?” Grantaire says, wanting to make sure. “There’s no need to feed me as well.”

“No backing out now,” Bossuet scolds. He pours a glass for him and Joly. “Don’t make us drink alone,” he winks.

Grantaire snorts, but Joly gives him an attentive look. “You don’t have to either, of course,” he says earnestly. “But we wouldn’t offer if we didn’t mean it.”

“Special friend privileges,” Bossuet grins widely and he raises his glass.

Grantaire decides not to make a big deal out of it, since clearly they don’t, but he decides that he definitely shouldn’t be the one that brings up the drinking. Apparently Bossuet agrees because by the time they are a couple of glasses in and all three of them are draped comfortably across the same couch he says:

“Now seems about the right time to take a sip, R.” He twinkles his eyes at Joly. “Or maybe ask Joly first, he likes to be first.”

Joly nudges him scoldingly with his foot. “Don’t tease me. It just feels unsanitary, okay.”

“Joly’s afraid of blood poisoning,” Bossuet confides smilingly. “Even though he was personally involved in research that showed there is no chance of that if there’s enough of a wait between the drinking.”

Joly pulls a face and slides off the couch to fetch what looks like first-aid kit, but contains several things normal first-aid kits definitely don’t. Grantaire doesn’t watch while Joly makes the incision in his arm, or at least he tries not to.

“Shit, Joly, that still looks really painful.”

“Hardly,” Joly laughs. “And you better get over here unless you want me to do it again, I heal fast, you know.”

“Faster than me,” Bossuet hums.

The smell of blood hits Grantaire about a second later and it’s embarrassing to him how involuntarily he turns towards Joly. He hesitates.

“I’m bleeding on my jeans,” Joly groans, laughingly trying to angle his arm right. “Grantaire, come on.”

“This is weird,” Grantaire shakes his head and with Bossuet and Joly’s laughter ringing cheerfully in his ears he carefully takes Joly’s hand in his and puts his lips to his lower arm. The first sip takes him completely by surprise. He hasn’t drunk human blood in a decade. He pulls away, startled. “Holy shit—” he gasps, shivers running down his back. He had forgotten how different it was. How warm.

“Why thank you,” Joly giggles, Bossuet laughing merrily along in the background, and Grantaire leans back in again, drinking properly this time.

He’s not sure if he can taste the alcohol in Joly’s blood or if it’s something else entirely, but he is certain this is better than any other time he’s ever drunk from anyone excepting Jehan. That means he should be extra careful not to overdo it. Grantaire was always good at that, though. It’s frequency rather than quantity that’s his problem, another reason why animals work so well for him. He pulls back, taking in a deep breath that fills his lungs with the taste still clinging to his mouth and lets himself fall back onto the couch pillows.

Bossuet laughs and wraps an arm around him and Grantaire looks up, head still swimming, to blink appreciatively at Joly. Joly shoots him a laughing glance before getting back to meticulously cleaning his skin. It’s reassuring to see the cut healing already. He must have recently drunk from Musichetta himself.

“There,” Bossuet says lovingly when Joly puts the case with supplies away. “All flawless again.” And he catches Joly’s hand to press kisses up his arm.

Joly laughs, tries to squirm away and compromises by climbing into Bossuet’s lap and wrapping his arms around his neck. Grantaire is still too overwhelmed to say something clever, so he just mutters:

“You two are disgusting. I object to blatant displays of marital bliss.”

“ _Marital_ ,” Joly snorts.

“Don’t you dare suggest you three are not married,” Grantaire says. The taste of blood has begun to melt away a little, but the sensation of it is still glowing in his chest and the smell is clinging to him heavily enough to make him dizzy.

“Can’t argue with that,” Bossuet says cheerfully. He shifts Joly from one side of his lap to the other and gives Grantaire a nudge. “You can bite me if you like, by the way. I can’t be trusted with knives. Joly could do it though.”

“Whatever you prefer,” Grantaire says, reaching out to take Joly’s hands. He looks at his arms, side by side, both unblemished. “The cutting did freak me out a bit.”

Joly smiles and gives his hand a squeeze.

“I don’t mind either way,” Bossuet shrugs and weirdly enough Grantaire has to admit that the idea of biting him is easier than the alternative, so he does.

He’s so cautious with it that Bossuet laughs at him and Grantaire takes a moment to insult him before sinking his teeth properly into his arm. This time he’s prepared and the taste and feeling are less overwhelming, which means he has more opportunity to enjoy it, without the heat frantically flushing his body and colours flashing in his eyes. That is, for the first few draughts.

Grantaire lets go of Bossuet’s arm, tries to lean back, and promptly loses his balance.

“You alright there, R?” Bossuet chuckles.

“Yeah,” Grantaire pants. “Just— Fucking hell.” His hands are tingling and he feels like his skin is glowing with pinpricks of heat.

“You’ve never mixed blood before, have you,” Joly laughs.

“Is that what this is?” Grantaire says, struggling to keep his voice under control. His head is absolutely swimming.

“Could be,” Bossuet says, amusedly. “Or it’s the alcohol. Speaking of which—”

He reaches for the bottle and Joly protests: “Let me clean you up first.”

There’s a giddiness dancing through Grantaire’s body that is completely foreign to him. “I’m not sure this feels the same as being drunk,” he says. “But I am _not_ complaining.”

“R,” Joly says, trying to wriggle off Bossuet’s lap. “Can you hand me the wet wipes?”

Grantaire scrambles off the couch to fetch the not-first-aid kit for Joly. His feet are steady underneath him, but instead of the heightened senses he has come to associate with drinking, everything feels delightfully fuzzy. When Joly is satisfied with the level of cleanliness of Bossuet – who somehow has managed to get blood on both his arms and his face despite Grantaire drinking very carefully – he turns to Grantaire.

“You have a smear on your chin,” he says, stifling a laugh. “Come here.”

Grantaire leans his head against Joly’s hand, tilting his head up obligingly, until Joly releases him. When they’re all sufficiently cleaned up, the three of them rearrange themselves on the couch until they’re in a comfortable tangle of limbs, heads and pillows.

“This was a good idea,” Joly hums, smiling up at the ceiling.

“I have the best ideas,” Bossuet declares modestly and Grantaire hums in agreement squeezing whoever’s shoulder his right hand is resting on at the moment.

“You’re adorable, R,” Joly says warmly, reaching out to tug on one of Grantaire’s messy curls. “You get so clingy after you feed.”

“Doesn’t everybody?” Grantaire asks, turning his head to look at him but not actually lifting it. He is far too comfortable to move, Joly and Bossuet are wonderfully warm.

“Oh no,” Joly says. “Some draw very into themselves, others get kind of…cold, distant.”

“What the hell,” Grantaire grunts.

“Mm,” Bossuet nods. “You see that most in those used to feeding in violence.”

Grantaire’s mind is too relaxed and fuzzy to check his expression. Joly has closed his eyes, but Bossuet notices. Grantaire doesn’t want to explain how he used to feed, but Bossuet doesn’t ask, he just smiles warmly and reaches past and across Joly, hugging Grantaire and squashing his partner in the process.

“Oi,” Joly protests, squirming and rolling on his side, incidentally half on top of Grantaire.

Grantaire wraps an arm around Joly to keep him from falling off the couch and leans his head against Bossuet’s shoulder for a moment. He thinks back for a moment and then firmly pushes the last time he drank from a human out of his mind. He’ll take clingy.

“Well, that explains why nobody’s answering their texts.”

All three of them raise their heads to see a highly amused Musichetta standing in the doorway.

“Chetta!” Bossuet cheers and Joly adds:

“Grantaire needed cheering up.”

“Did he now,” she grins, stepping out of her shoes.

“They’re taking very good care of me,” Grantaire says and a distant part of him is comforted by knowing that Musichetta clearly understands what they’ve been doing and just as clearly doesn’t mind.

“Want to join us?” Joly invites, his voice slipping into a low tone Grantaire hasn’t ever heard him use before.

“Doesn’t look like there’s a lot of room,” Musichetta says, eyes twinkling, but she’s already approaching the couch.

“That depends on how hard we’re willing to try,” Bossuet says.

They all make a valiant effort.

Turns out there is plenty of room.

♦♦♦

Jehan is looking positively radiant the next evening, all filled up with blood and romance. Grantaire has found, mercifully, that the dazed feeling doesn’t last and that he doesn’t feel the need to drink again either. That used to happen a lot back when he still fed on humans, he’s glad that feeling hasn’t returned.

“Let’s stay in tonight,” Jehan says. “We haven’t had a proper binge-watch in ages.”

Grantaire is more than happy to oblige. “You’re playing into my weaknesses, Jehan Prouvaire.”

“Ah well, according to Chetta you’ve gained some new ones lately,” Jehan grins, pulling Grantaire into a fauteuil that really isn’t big enough for two.

Grantaire scoffs and drags Jehan onto his lap so they can both sit properly. “Having allies makes a little more sense now, let’s leave it at that,” he jokes.

“Hm,” Jehan smiles, leaning into him. “Well, you had a chill time of it, that’s the main thing.”

Grantaire hums in agreement and turns on the tv.

Jehan turns a little and nudges their head against his. “It’s good,” they say softly. “Being settled, having friends around.”

It is good. Their lives have changed so suddenly Grantaire has hardly stopped to think of how very different it all is. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

Jehan smiles warmly at him and Grantaire knows they would like to say more. About change probably and good things coming from them, but they don’t and he’s grateful, so they just cuddle up and watch tv. Since neither of them can decide what to watch, so they end up watching Dutch programming. Or rather, laughing at Dutch programming.

“It’s a pity they don’t have English subtitles,” Jehan gulps.

“Honestly I think it’s better this way,” Grantaire snorts. “I don’t kn—”

The cheerful beeping of Jehan’s ringtone interrupts him and Jehan answers it, voice still wobbly with laughter, while Grantaire reaches for the remote to turn the tv down. He feels the change in Jehan’s mood almost immediately. Grantaire feels a tight worry in his chest as he sees the expression on their face darken. They say very little and they hang up quickly, but when they hang up they explain immediately.

“That was Courf,” they say soberly. “There’s an emergency meeting tomorrow night. Someone else got drained.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for ending on a chill after such a warm fuzzy chapter. At least I thought it was warm and fuzzy :P
> 
> The different social contexts for drinking from each other is one of the most intriguing things when thinking about vampire culture I think and I wanted to explore that a bit here. I hope it didn’t make anyone uncomfortable <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: graphic violence, side-characters getting hurt, guilt/anguish, anxiety. (This is the high stakes chapter, but the rewards are great, trust me.)

“In short, we now have to consider this unknown vampire a direct threat,” Combeferre concludes sternly. “Two people dead in so short a space of time is not an accident, it’s a feeding habit. We’ve been told Sanquin has taken notice too. This vampire, let us hope it is only one, has to be found. And dealt with.”

Enjolras can see the uneasiness on everyone’s faces, even Courfeyrac’s, but Combeferre is right. They can’t let this sort of thing slide. Never again.

“There’s no reason why they’d come here,” one of the older vampires speaks up, a rather heavy Dutch accent to his English.

“There’s no reason why they would stay away either,” Enjolras replies, eyes fixed on the man, who is at least a hundred years his elder. “Hilversum is barely half an hour away. They might be here already. And even if they’d never set foot in our city, does that mean they get to drain the rest of the country?”

“Two humans is hardly—”

“ _Two people_ ,” Enjolras snaps, but he averts his eyes as soon as he feels his self-control wavering.

“There is no room for this behaviour in our community,” Combeferre takes over again, the full weight of four centuries sounding in his words. “ _And neither for struisvogelpolitiek_ ,” he adds snidely, switching abruptly to Dutch.

There’s a tense beat of silence, but it is suddenly broken by Grantaire, who addresses the hesitant vampire directly.

“Don’t be an ass, Theo. Do you really need to be given the ‘it could be your ally tomorrow’ speech before you’ll care about people dropping dead in your own backyard?”

Before Theo can answer Jehan joins in: “We haven’t been here for very long but I can tell you now that what you have here is worth defending.”

“And we sure as hell will,” Musichetta speaks up.

“And we’ll do it together,” Courfeyrac says firmly. “Like we always have. These meetings aren’t for show.”

It takes only a slight nod from Theo for the discussion to turn towards plans of action and Enjolras is proud to see everyone band together. Especially the younglings, switching erratically between Dutch and English as they argue with their sires. When everyone finally disperses Enjolras at least feels like they are working towards getting a handle on things. This situation must be resolved as quickly as possible.

“Enj?”

Enjolras looks up into Grantaire’s face. He’s looking cautious, but there’s something immediately comforting about him and Enjolras finds himself smiling in spite of everything. There are no visions of blood in his mind, only something warm that feels a bit like gratefulness.

“Thanks for what you said earlier,” he says, pulling Grantaire a bit to the side, out of the way of Combeferre who is still talking to some elders in rapid Dutch.

Grantaire nods, but doesn’t answer. “Is there anything we— I can do to help?” he asks instead.

It takes Enjolras only a second to realize Grantaire is not talking about the plans they just talked about, but his uncertainty is long enough to unbalance him a little. He smiles without meaning to and then shakes his head without knowing if it’s the right answer. Grantaire is standing very close, but his presence is doing nothing but make Enjolras feel better and Enjolras has to ask himself why on earth he thought it necessary to skip the last meeting.

“You’re okay, then?” Grantaire says quietly.

Enjolras nods. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He smiles, steadily this time, deliberately. “Thank you, R.”

“Alright,” Grantaire nods, one corner of his mouth tilting up in a lopsided smile. “Well, don’t let it keep you up at day.”

“I’ll try,” Enjolras says and part of him wants to invite Grantaire to stay a little longer. Jehan too if they want. Just for company, something good to stay up for while it’s light outside. But he doesn’t. He accepts Grantaire’s parting hug and wishes him a good morning, watching him wait for Jehan to be done cuddling Courfeyrac. Jehan comes to hug Enjolras goodbye too of course, but even after they have left, Combeferre is still deep in discussion.

“We’ll remind them of the existence of daybreak in time for them to still make it home,” Courfeyrac says lightly, sitting down next to Enjolras and putting an affectionate hand on his arm.

Enjolras hums.

“You know this will be sorted, right?” Courfeyrac says, his gaze uncharacteristically averted. “One bad apple won’t spoil our basket.”

“I know,” Enjolras says. He also knows Courfeyrac has seen worse, much worse, than what he’s lived through. But Courfeyrac’s has never been close to the people responsible. Not like Enjolras has. Combeferre is so fierce right now because this is his home and always has been, but Enjolras feels the threat of the past snarling at him.

“Enj,” Courfeyrac says, looking at him. “I can practically _see_ you deciding to put your entire existence on hold to obsess over this. Please don’t.”

“I’m not putting anything on hold,” Enjolras protests, because he isn’t, this is what living in a community _means_.

Courfeyrac gives him a fondly exasperated smile and looks away again. “Alright then, when you’re ready to talk, you know where to find me.”

Enjolras feels his unbeating heart twist in his chest. “About what,” he tries, but Courfeyrac is already quirking an eyebrow at him.

“ _Cheri_ , I don’t think you’ve _ever_ skipped a meeting before,” he says. “And since it has taken a literal murder taking place for you to stop blinking distractedly whenever someone mentions Grantaire’s name, I think I’m entitled to make a wild guess here.”

“Courf that isn’t funny,” Enjolras says in dismay. He knows he’s been distracted. Probably neglecting to give this situation the attention it deserves until it took this definite turn for the worse. And he has probably behaved oddly toward Grantaire as well. He is sorry for both.

“It isn’t the end of the world either,” Courfeyrac points out, sinking his voice a little. “You’ll have to forgive me and let me care about you more than I do about the country. Don’t worry, it’s only a minute difference.”

Enjolras grimaces and Courfeyrac grins.

“I… Can we not talk about this now?” Enjolras mutters.

“Of course,” Courfeyrac nods, squeezing his arm, but Enjolras _knows_ he’s not finished. “Might be good to talk to R though.”

“I will,” Enjolras mutters. “Just…when I’ve figured this out.”

“What’s there to figure out?” Courfeyrac turns fully towards him and drapes his arms across his shoulders.

Enjolras makes a nondescript sound. There’s lots he’d like figured out. Starting with what the hell he wants in the first place.

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Courfeyrac sighs. “You’ve only been dead for under two decades. Live a little.”

“Well, excuse me for taking this seriously,” Enjolras grunts, slouching in his chair as Courfeyrac puts more of his weight on him. “I’ve never…” He trails off in frustration and Courfeyrac makes a fond noise.

“ _Ami_ , you’re—”

“And what about Jehan?” Enjolras interrupts him.

Courfeyrac tuts and gives him a nudge. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be jealous of platonic soulmates? Because if so I’m afraid me and Ferre will _both_ have to duel you, not to mention each other!”

“Duels were never a thing here,” Enjolras retorts, but he’s smiling in spite of himself.

“They were too,” Courfeyrac scoffs. “One of Ferre’s professor friends got shot in the eighteen forties or fifties or other. Silly man.”

“Fine,” Enjolras rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not jealous and no, no duels will be necessary.” That doesn’t mean he has the right to upset the life Grantaire and Jehan have built together though. He can tell Grantaire cares about him and he can also tell that Jehan is nothing but supportive of that. But he’s not at all sure what that means, or what it could mean. Or what he even _wants_ it to mean. He looks at Courfeyrac, who is still leaning against him, but has taken to watching Combeferre. His expression is such a mix of fondness and concern that Enjolras can almost feel it filling the air between them. Maybe talking to Grantaire after he’s figured this out isn’t an option. Maybe this isn’t something he should try to figure out on his own.

♦♦♦

“Grantaire,” Jehan says firmly. “Sit down. Let me do your hair for you.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Grantaire frets, letting himself be pushed down on the couch so Jehan can sit up beside him.

“Nothing,” they say, raking their fingers through his loose curls. “But you need to calm down.”

Grantaire groans and Jehan hums affectionately, scratching his scalp. “I just— I don’t—You don’t just ask people if they want to go for a walk with you.”

“Technically he offered to show you around the city,” Jehan points out. “And people do ask people if they want to go for a walk, when they’re trying to get to know someone better. …or when they’re asking someone out on a date.”

Grantaire looks up at Jehan. “Do not do that to me,” he says heavily. “Jehan, don’t.” And before Jehan can say something else, he adds: “You look me in the eye and tell me Enjolras wouldn’t be the most straightforward, plain-spoken person on the planet when actually asking someone for a date.”

The way Jehan shuts their mouth is both a triumph and a blow to Grantaire.

“Well,” they say. “He asked you out on a walk and you said yes and since I’m going to stop you from sabotaging yourself before he gets here, you’re going.” They smile in response to his suffering look. “You can tell me whether it was or wasn’t a date when you get back.”

♦

Enjolras is grateful for Grantaire’s cheerful stories, because he does not know what to say himself. Most old subjects are linked to old disagreements, the things currently on his mind are too grave. When he arrived at Grantaire and Jehan’s place he was worried about what to say, hoping Grantaire would not mind walking in silence. He didn’t have to find out though, because Grantiare hasn’t stopped talking since they left and Enjolras counts himself lucky. It’s really much easier to just listen to Grantaire, laugh at his jokes, be happy to be near him. As they wander the streets, Grantaire makes Enjolras forget that he’s had sleepless days about this. It doesn’t seem so complicated right now. It doesn’t escape him that although he seems happy to take the lead in the conversation, Grantaire subtly waits for Enjolras to choose their route. Enjolras leads him down the Prinsengracht, he’s fond of the way the lights of the houseboats line the canal.

“The nights are really getting longer now,” Enjolras remarks happily, when Grantaire falls silent for a moment.

“Yeah,” Grantaire hums, looking up at the dark sky.

Enjolras watches his face, the thoughtful expression and the forever young features with age hidden in nothing but the eyes and the undertone of his smile.

“Do you miss the sun?”

It takes a while for the question to reach Enjolras. His feet are still moving obediently, but his thoughts had drifted. He feels something hot press on his cold skin from the inside out and he swallows. “The sun?”

“Yes,” Grantaire says, looking at him. “I don’t miss it, not really, never have.”

“I used to love the sun,” Enjolras says. He remembers loving the sunlight, but he can’t really get the feeling back. “I’m not sure if I miss it,” he muses. “If anything I miss the warmth.”

A grin light up Grantaire’s face and Enjolras feels himself smile in response before he’s made a conscious decision to do so.

“What?” he laughs.

“Has Jehan ever told you about blanket nests?” Grantaire asks, still grinning.

“I don’t think so?” Enjolras says. “What are blanket nests?”

“A sacred tradition,” Grantaire says gravely.

Enjolras listens, with great appreciation, to Grantaire’s colourful explanation of the necessity of blanket nests filed with hot-water bottles. They have wandered away from the canal, their laughter echoing through the narrow alleyways as they turn further away from the broad streets.

“Seriously though, Enj,” Grantaire shakes his head. “Europe is supposed to be where the culture comes from! Not knowing about blanket nests. I am shocked and _appalled_.”

He’s making a show of his horrification and the sparks that dance in his eyes make Enjolras want to grab Grantaire’s arms and back him up against the wall of the alley so he can look at them more closely. He looks away.

“Do you know about the museum night in November?” Enjolras blurts out. It’s the only thing he had managed to think of beforehand that was definitely worth mentioning.

“No, what’s that?” Grantaire asks, after faltering just a second.

“It’s an annual thing,” Enjolras says, glancing sideways at Grantaire to gauge his reaction. “All the big museums in Amsterdam open at night. There’s special activities, but it’s worth it just see them all lit up at night.”

“Dude, that sounds _outrageous_.”

Enjolras grins. “Combeferre usually just spends the whole night in the Rijks, but there’s about fifty museums that participate.”

“The Rijks is like, the Dutch Louvre right?” Grantaire says eagerly. “Where they keep the old masters?”

“Pretty much,” Enjolras nods. He had expected Grantaire to be into this, really it had been a pretty safe bet, but he’s still stupidly happy. “If you’d like,” he begins, slowing his pace to face Grantaire fully. “We could—”

Grantaire turns around at the exact same moment as Enjolras abruptly shuts his mouth. They both felt it. The oppressing strain of Presence in the air. Enjolras looks down the alley to their right and his mind goes blank. There’s a shape moving in the near dark. Two shapes.

By the time the smell of blood reaches Enjolras’ nose, his body has already started moving.

♦

Grantaire follows Enjolras when he storms down the alley because it never occurs to him not to. He is too familiar with the shape of what they are running towards to doubt what they’ll find. Grantaire knows what a feeding vampire looks like.

Enjolras movements are far nearer to that of an animal than anything else, but when he speaks there is not even a growl to his voice. The words are sharp and clear and they cut a chill into the air.

“ ** _Let them go_**.”

The vampire moves and Grantaire can see they do so against their will. There is a whirl of long hair as they turn around and two shocked eyes stare at Enjolras. The vampire’s mouth is dripping with blood, but her throat is convulsing as if she is choking on her meal under Enjolras’ eyes.

“ _Who do you think you are_ —” Enjolras spits and Grantaire has _never_ seen him look like this.

There should be fire dripping from his features, searing his image into the night. He is terrifying. Radiant.

“You don’t belong here,” Enjolras says, a hiss in every word. “ ** _Tell me your name_**.”

“V-victurnien.” Her voice is strained, as if the syllables are being dragged from her lips by force and Grantaire remembers the feeling.

A whimper vibrates in the air and Grantaire breaks out of his haze. He darts past the gulping vampire and manages to catch her victim before he slides to the ground. For a moment of sheer terror Grantaire thinks it is a child, but the man is grown, only slightly built. His clothes are ripped and there is blood smeared up his neck, but to his second relief Grantaire sees the bite is not to his artery, the wound is closer to his shoulder and it’s not bleeding very fast. The fog of the vampire’s Presence is still in the man’s eyes, but it’s beginning to fade and his limbs are twitching in delayed terror. Grantaire feels a stab of guilt, but he can’t have him panic. He can’t run, not if they’re going to have a chance to help him. He lifts the man’s chin and looks into his eyes.

“ ** _You’re gonna be okay_** ,” he says deliberately. Compared to the raw power radiating of Enjolras, Grantaire’s Presence is soft, but it’s not weak. “ ** _I’m going to make sure you’re okay_** ,” he promises. “ ** _It’s alright._** **_You can calm down now._** ”

The trembling stops and the man takes in a shuddering breath. For a moment helpless suspicion flares wildly in his eyes and then he gives in and lets himself collapse against Grantaire. He supports his weight, muttering a fruitless apology, wondering if there’s anything he can use to put pressure on the wound.

“Is he dead?” Enjolras demands and his voice is hot and furious.

“No,” Grantaire says. “He’ll make it.” And he glances up at Enjolras, only to see him walk away from him, making the strange vampire back away with scrambling steps.

“You meant to kill him.” Enjolras’ hands raise slightly, as if he’s preparing to strike her and Victurnien nearly trips as she backs herself against the wall.

“Feeding,” she stutters, a heavy accent on her tongue. “I was only feeding.”

“Were you the one that killed before? Two people. Drained dry.” Enjolras is taller than her and she is making herself small, shrinking against the rough bricks.

“F-forgive m—”

“ ** _Answer me_.** ”

Grantaire feels the man shudder in his arms and he feels a wave of nausea pass through his own stomach.

“Yes!” Victurnien gulps. “Yes I did. But they were only human—”

Enjolras’ hand is at her throat before she can finish her sentence, fresh blood runs from her mouth as he pins her against the wall, her entire body freezing under his touch.

“How _dare you._ ”

Panic sparks in Grantaire’s mind and he turns around, holding the bleeding man close to his chest. He doesn’t want to see this, doesn’t want Enjolras to do this. “Enjolras!”

His voice doesn’t even seem to reach him.

“ ** _You deserve to die for this_**.”

Victurnien isn’t struggling. Enjolras is staring at her, a sickening hate on his beautiful face, and she looks up into his eyes motionless. She is colourless with terror and Grantaire hates her for it. She is the murderer, she does not get to make Enjolras into one.

“Enj, look at me,” Grantaire tries, but Enjolras isn’t listening and he can’t reach out to touch him, Victurnien’s victim is clutching at him. He needs help.

“Enjolras we need to go Sanquin.”

“ _What?_ ” Enjolras snarls and for a moment Grantaire feels a push of his Presence against his mind. It’s not meant for him though and he shoves it away.

“We’re not letting him bleed to death, Enj.” This time Grantaire feels like it’s actually Enjolras listening to him, part of him at least, and he continues: “She killed humans, not vampires, they deserve to deal with her personally.”

Grantaire knows it’s a low blow, but Enjolras won’t look at him and by now he doesn’t care what it takes to keep him from doing what he knows he desperately want to do. “Don’t make me feed this guy my blood to keep him alive,” he says. “Please.”

There is a single moment of hesitation and then Enjolras’ retracts his hand.

Victurnien coughs as she slides to the ground, but Enjolras gives her no time to cower.

“ ** _To your feet_** ,” he orders and she obeys, mindlessly.

Grantaire breathes a sigh of relief, but he does not get to relax.

“Sanquin it is,” Enjolras says and with the Presence drained out of it his voice is so cold and distant that Grantaire actually misses the fire.

Enjolras starts walking and Victurnien follows. Every muscle in her body straining in the opposite direction and yet going only where he wants her to. Grantaire coaxes the weakening man to walk with him as he supports more than half his weight, moving as fast as he can.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he mutters and yes, he’s addressing the man, but he’s looking at Enjolras.

♦

Enjolras feels sick to his stomach. He lets Grantaire do virtually all the talking at Sanquin, because whenever he opens his mouth he feels like he might throw up. The loathsome woman whose name Enjolras will do his best to forget seems to have lost any strength of mind to speak and Enjolras feels no remorse for that. But Sanquin is full of staring eyes and Grantaire – Grantaire who _reeks_ of human blood, even after they gave him a change of clothes – is looking at him like Enjolras frightens him. Enjolras can’t stand to be under fluorescent lights and between walls and when they’re finally outside – no more murderers tethered to his mind and no more victims bleeding in Grantaire’s arms – the night air seems to burn in his throat.

Grantaire is at his side, but he isn’t talking. He’s more quiet than he has ever been and Enjolras wants to be gone from this moment. He needs to be alone and he needs to be sick like this, because if he doesn’t force himself to feel all of this he’ll forget. And he’ll only remember how good it felt, just for a second, to have complete and absolute control. He can _never_ let that happen again. He hasn’t lost himself like that in years. And now he’s let Grantaire see it. Grantaire who isn’t saying a word. Grantaire who is doing nothing but _stare_ at him—

♦

It’s probably not the best idea, considering the circumstances, but Grantaire feels like he’ll break inside if he has to watch Enjolras be like this for even a second longer. And he doesn’t know how to help. He hasn’t a clue. So he reaches out and grabs Enjolras’ arm.

Enjolras freezes.

“Are— Are you— I mean, I know you’re not okay, but—” Grantaire shuts his mouth when Enjolras meets his eyes. He still doesn’t look like himself. Too sharp. Too hard. Too much.

“Enj?”

It’s a question. A genuine one. That one syllable containing a thousand different offers. Because Grantaire would do _anything_ right now to make this better.

Enjolras’ shoulders sag. The sharp brilliancy slips off his features so abruptly that it’s jarring. He sways on his feet and suddenly looks so tired that Grantaire instinctually steps forward to support him. Instead of shaking him off Enjolras slumps against him and Grantaire takes a careful step back, he wants to hide them both from view in the shadows. He’d hide Enjolras from the entire world if he could, from all of this. But the best he can do is wrap his arms around him, so he does that instead.

A far edge of Grantaire’s mind is angry. Angry that it has to be like this. That he has to have Enjolras in his arms now, with the smell of innocent blood still fresh in his memory and strange clothes on his skin. But it’s a faint feeling compared to the shrill thrill of worry singing in his chest, because Enjolras suddenly feels almost weak in his arms and Grantaire does not know how to help him.

“Enj?” he mutters again.

Enjolras makes a faint sound, barely audible.

“Try breathing?” Grantaire suggests uncertainly, because Enjolras seems to be shaking, face buried against Grantaire’s shoulder.

The shaking gets worse and Grantaire desperately want to be able to do the right thing.

“Enj, it’s over,” he tries. “It’s okay.” That at least feels like the right thing to say.

And maybe it is, because even though the noise Enjolras makes in response still sounds choked, it’s followed by a deep breath of air.

♦

It shouldn’t work like that but the anxiety in Grantaire’s voice is close to choking Enjolras with relief. Because he expected fear of him, not for him. He wasn’t expecting any of this, Grantaire’s arms around him, his fingers stroking uncertainly through his hair. There are tears swelling in Enjolras' throat, but he feels like he’s smiling.

When Enjolras finally moves the only reason he does so is to prove to Grantaire that he’s okay. He pulls away far enough to look at him properly, standing firmly only on his own feet again.

Grantaire’s pale face brightens with relief. “Are you back?” he asks, his bright eyes still worried.

“Yeah,” Enjolras assures him, struggling to sort through the affection and relief still washing over him in waves. “Yeah, I’m fine, R.”

“Oh thank god,” Grantaire sighs, leaning back against the wall of the building that’s obscuring them from view. He gives Enjolras a relieved grin and pulls a face. “My second plan was to just pick you up and carry you all the way to Courfeyrac.”

Enjolras smiles weakly. “Why not Ferre?” he asks.

“Eh,” Grantaire hums, making a doubtful movement with his head. “I figure he’d just give me a lecture on the proper way to attend to a person in shock.”

Enjolras lets out a breathy laugh. He can tell all Grantaire wants is to break the tension and lift his mood and he appreciates it. So much. “I think you’re underestimating Ferre’s ability to flip his shit when stuff he doesn’t like is happening.”

Grantaire gives him a lopsided grin. “Very possible, we both know how _excellent_ I am at judging characters.”

Enjolras laughs again and this time he leans forward. He wants to rest against Grantaire again, just for a moment. Instead he ends up slumping forward more than leaning and Grantaire instinctually raises his arms back up to steady him. His hands are resting just below Enjolras’ shoulder blades and when Enjolras sways back, trying to correct for the accidental movement, he doesn’t let go.

Enjolras lifts his head apologetically and he meant to put some distance between them, but now Grantaire is looking directly up at him and his face is suddenly much closer than it has ever been. Grantaire is standing very still, but he’s not pulling away. He swallows though and just for a moment Enjolras glances at Grantaire’s lips as they move. Something stutters in his brain and entirely without interruption from his rational judgement Enjolras tilts his head and lets his lips meet Grantaire’s.

He doesn’t have time to regret it either, because Grantaire kisses him back almost instantly.

Enjolras hasn’t kissed anyone in decades. Not since he was human. He leans in closer, almost pushing Grantaire up against the wall and Grantaire’s hands grab at his back, pulling him in. Together the movements of their mouths are almost desperate and Enjolras wants to drag Grantaire away from the street, away to someplace where they’re not hidden in the shadows. Wants to kiss him hard enough to taste all of him.

Grantaire moans in his mouth and Enjolras pulls away, flustered. There’s a craving inside him that’s blurring the line between the thoughts in his head and the feelings in his body. Perhaps he should take a step back.

Physically stepping away isn’t an option though, Grantaire is still holding on to him. He lifts up his eyes and the fact that he looks genuinely happy as well as dazed is such a relief that Enjolras manages to find his voice.

“I know…I know we should talk about this first,” he says, speaking as low as he can while still making himself heard.

“We- We can talk about it later,” Grantaire says and there’s a slight roughness to his voice that is making something tingle on the back of Enjolras’ neck.

“Yeah?” he swallows. It’s very hard to think clearly right now, he doesn’t want to do anything either of them might regret.

Grantaire swallows too, looking up at him questioningly. “As long as you’re sure that you want to be kissing me.”

Enjolras hardly recognizes his own voice in the eager sound that escapes his lips and he immediately kisses Grantaire again.

♦

Grantaire has forgiven the night its previous transgressions. He’s willing to forgive the world everything. Enjolras is pressed up against him, making swallowed noises when Grantaire slides his hand up into his hair, and moving his lips like he’s trying to speak a wordless language. Enjolras’ hands meanwhile are cupping his face, the fingers of his right hand grabbing at the back of Grantaire’s neck. It’s everything Grantaire ever wanted from him and immediately he wants more.

He wants to bite blood into his mouth, make his tongue as red as the feelings swelling in his chest. And as their kisses deepen all he can think of is touching his fangs to Enjolras’ lips. Of pushing just a little bit too hard. Because he can taste Enjolras, but not all of him, and he wants to.

But he doesn’t. Instead he lets Enjolras crowd him against the grainy surface of the wall and follows his every movement, letting him set the pace.

Enjolras kisses are like his words, heated and sincere, but they’re also just a bit clumsy. More filled with eagerness than skilfulness.

It makes Grantaire smile and he gently tilts Enjolras’ head, giving him slightly more room. Enjolras hums, slowing the kiss as Grantaire’s fingers press lightly into his scalp and Grantaire does it again, pulling softly on his hair.

Enjolras’ lips leave his and there’s a moment of stillness before they remember to breathe. Grantaire releases his grip on Enjolras’ curls and then tightens it again, pulling his head to the side and pressing a kiss to his neck. Enjolras keens softly, leaning fully against him again, his fingers digging into Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire kisses him again.

“I didn’t know you wanted this,” he breathes, tracing the cold path of Enjolras artery with his lips.

“I don’t think I knew either,” Enjolras sighs.

Grantaire hesitates. He doesn’t pull away immediately, he presses another kiss lower on Enjolras neck, and another. But then he lifts his head and lets his fingers slide caressingly out of Enjolras hair, waiting for Enjolras to look at him.

“Did- Did you know before tonight?”  Grantaire needs to know whether this was spur of the moment or not.

Enjolras' expression changes, his grip on Grantaire’s shoulders had already softened, now the look in his eyes follows suit. “I’ve known for a while,” he says softly. “I just, I didn’t know what to say, or do.” He grimaces slightly. “I’m not very good at this. Haven’t had a lot of practice.”

Grantaire laughs silently and reaches up, pulling Enjolras down until their foreheads are resting against each other. “Jehan is going to laugh at me.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks. He sounds genuinely puzzled, but there’s also a smile in his voice.

“Because they insisted tonight was a date,” Grantaire says, grinning because of the sheer happiness swirling in his insides. “And they told me to ask you out weeks ago.”

Enjolras makes a startled sound and Grantaire laughs, out loud this time.

“Well,” Enjolras mutters. “Maybe it’d be good if this was our first date.”

“How so?” Grantaire asks, leaning his head back against the wall again so he can actually look at Enjolras.

“Because it went pretty disastrous,” Enjolras says, smiling slightly. “And we’ve got a pretty bad track record for…firsts. Maybe our second date will be better.”

Grantaire laughs again, because to hear Enjolras say it like that it sounds utterly absurd, but also, Enjolras isn’t wrong. Enjolras laughs softly and it’s just a pretty sound that Grantaire can’t help pulling him closer again, just for a moment. But they’ve both woken up from their haze now and even if they’re still holding on to each other with possessive affection, this backstreet has lost its temporary glamour.

“We should go home,” Enjolras says reluctantly. “Tell the others what happened.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agrees, pushing away from the wall. “We probably should.”

Enjolras lets go of him, but only for a second, he reaches out again immediately and takes hold of Grantaire’s hand. “And say something about Sanquin too, I suppose,” he says.

It actually takes Grantaire a moment to realize that was a joke and the sparks of amusement dancing in Enjolras eyes are not enough to stop him from grumbling for a moment as they start their walk back home. “You keep your face far too straight for jokes like that,” he complains.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says, not sounding sorry at all. And really, Grantaire agrees that there’s nothing to be sorry for.

They’re walking hand in hand. Grantaire isn’t sorry for _anything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a long time coming, wasn’t it~
> 
> It feels rather silly after all that tension, but for those who are interested:
> 
> Victurnien is the name of the hateful woman who gets Fantine fired from Madeleine’s factory. Of course that didn’t happen in this universe, but my sister thought she deserved this fate anyway and I heartily agreed.
> 
> [In 1844 a professor of languages was shot and killed in a duel](https://nl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Hugo_van_Bolhuis), a very rare occurrence on Dutch soil (we’re certainly not known for being hot-blooded). 
> 
> “Struisvogelpolitiek” (literally ostrich-politics) is the Dutch term for pretending problems don’t exist in the hope they will go away on their own.  
> “Het Rijks” is an abbreviation for “Rijksmuseum”. It’s the “state museum”, our biggest national gallery. I’ve always wanted to go to one of their museum nights, it sounds special.
> 
> On Friday this story will come to a close! Hope to see you there <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: vampire sex, which means a lot of teeth and blood, but none of the traditional human body parts.
> 
> If this is not your cup of tea and you'd prefer a "fade to black/cut to pillow talk" experience, I advise to stop reading at “Enjolras gives him a single moment to grin…” and skip to “Finally Grantaire lifts up his eyes…”
> 
> In casy any of you want to skip this chapter entirely, I'll put a little recap in the author's notes of the Epilogue so you don't have to worry about missing anything essential <3

Considering everything that happened, Enjolras is glad Grantaire is fine with keeping the more _personal_ developments of the evening to themselves for now. He does warn him that Jehan will find out as soon as they have two seconds alone with himand Enjolras really hadn’t expected anything less. It’s a strange feeling, being so happy after a night like this. But, in a way, everything that happened was good. Or better than it might have been.

Courfeyrac goes through the strangest range of facial expressions when they arrive home. His eyes first darting delightedly between their only recently released hands and then sobering when he sees Grantaire’s clothes and – judging from his wrinkled nose – smells the blood.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes widening and Combeferre appears in the doorway at the end of the hall immediately.

“I’ll go call Jehan,” Grantaire says, closing the front door behind him. “Chetta and the gang too?”

“Yes, good idea,” Enjolras says and he adds, quickly: “We’re fine, Courf, we’re both fine.” He glances back at Grantaire, who is talking to Jehan already and looks back at his concerned friends. “R and I just ran into our unwanted visitor…”

♦

Enjolras is actually rather surprised when Courfeyrac lets him go straight to bed after all the pressing matters have been discussed and their friends have left for their respective homes. He had expected to be driven into a corner and questioned minutely. But there are no teasing questions attached to the good-morning hugs he receives from both him and Combeferre. Maybe Courfeyrac is afraid Enjolras has nothing to tell him. Considering the events of the night, that wouldn’t be very surprising, and in that case asking would be rather uncomfortable. In any case Enjolras is at least a partially grateful he can keep all this to himself a little while longer. To be honest, he’s still reeling slightly.

To be _completely_ honest, Enjolras thinks as he closes his bedroom door behind him, he wishes he could have had more time with Grantaire than some glances during the shared discussion and a quick hug goodbye at the door.

“Hi.”

Enjolras whirls around, nearly knocking over his desk chair. “ _Putain_ , R!” he gasps.

Grantaire is crouching in his window, grinning sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he says, half-laughing. “Is coming through the window a cliché?”

“A little,” Enjolras says, smiling through his genuine shock. “I thought you went home?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire hums, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Jehan literally guessed what happened three steps out of your front door and then called me an idiot for not kissing you goodbye.”

Enjolras just manages to swallow a laugh. His bedroom is not close to that of his friends, but Courfeyrac has an uncannily good ear for laughter.

Grantaire grins at him. “So, um, I know it’s pretty close to daybreak, but—”

“ _Yes_ , you can come in,” Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Get down from there.” He almost laughs again, at the sight of Grantaire jumping down off his windowsill and just because there’s laughter inside of him right now.

He reaches for Grantaire as soon as he straightens up and Grantaire grabs his hand.

For a moment they just stand there, looking at each other. Then Grantaire asks, rather cautiously: “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says gently and he means it. “I mean, if you are…”

“Are you kidding?” Grantaire says. “I’m—” He shakes his head. “Enjolras, I never thought this could happen. I didn’t think it was a possibility. If I had I would have, well, I would have at least _tried_ to ask you out.”

Enjolras smiles. It’s a little embarrassing, to think that he had had so little insight in his own feelings for such a long time, let alone Grantaire’s. He’s happy to just enjoy this moment though. Standing here with Grantaire, holding his hand, because he just climbed through his window.

There is one thing though, and Enjolras knows what they said about guilt once, but that was then and this is now.

“What I did tonight,” he says softly and Grantaire’s smile fades to a look of concern and attention. Enjolras swallows, letting go of Grantaire’s hand. “I haven’t done that in a long time and…I hoped I would never do it again.” He wishes he could say ‘I hoped I would never _have_ to do it again’, but he knows nothing forced him to act this way tonight. Victurnien was old, but her blood was not strong. A little of his Presence would have been enough to overpower her. He overdid it, because he lost his temper. Because he wanted to. He should never allow that.

“She fucking deserved it,” Grantaire says decidedly, something hard glittering in his eyes for just a second.

“It’s a slippery slope,” Enjolras says uncomfortably. “I don’t- I don’t want you to think that I would ever—” He doesn’t know how to say this. He wishes it wasn’t necessary to say it. But, he used Presence on Grantaire once…

Grantaire draws towards him, looking oddly calm. “Have you ever used your Presence on a friend?”

Enjolras hadn’t expected that question. “I- No. Well, you—”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Have you ever used it to coerce someone you genuinely cared about, for whatever reason.”

“No,” Enjolras says seriously. The thought alone is making his stomach churn.

Grantaire smiles and reaches out, slowly, as if he’s half-expecting Enjolras to draw back.

He doesn’t, of course. Enjolras is only keeping still because the urge to touch Grantaire, to do something physical to make up for the harsh reality of his words is already far too difficult to resist. He focusses on the feelings of Grantaire’s fingers lacing through his and looks at him. To his surprise there is a smile hidden in Grantaire’s eyes.

“Don’t take this as a challenge,” he says. “But I don’t think you could.”

Enjolras opens his mouth in protest. Not because he wants to be right, but because this is far too convenient an out. Grantaire hurries to clarify though.

“I know how strong you are,” he says. “But I mean it, Enj. I think you could command half the world, but not the people you care for.” His smile brightens to a grin. “Jehan’s presence is very strong,” he says. “And they’re great with animals.”

“I know,” Enjolras says. He’s seen Jehan dance with the jackdaws in the Vondelpark.

“You know their Presence damn near stops working completely when they try to lure animals to drink from?”

Enjolras blinks in surprise and Grantaire nods.

“Because they don’t _want_ to,” he says emphatically. “Not really. Not even when they know they have to. They can’t do it.”

Enjolras has never heard anything like that, but then again, after breaking free he’s made it a point to avoid those who abuse their Presence. It’s true that he’s never actually _tried_ to control the people around him. He had just presumed…like sire like fledgling.

“Not that you need your Presence to render me utterly useless,” Grantaire says, the gravity ebbing out of his voice.

Enjolras wants to let the subject drop, he does, but.. “R, if I _ever_ —”

This time Grantaire actually interrupts him. “Enjolras you had your full Presence turned on a woman who represented everything you fought to get away form and you _let her go_ , just because I asked.”

Enjolras shuts his mouth.

“And I probably wasn’t even that convincing, cause _man_ did I want to see her dead,” Grantaire says dryly. His voice and expressions are laced with that refusal to be serious that used to infuriate Enjolras. Now he’s grateful for it. So grateful.

“On the other hand,” Grantaire says, pulling a face. “Sanquin’s rehabilitation program didn’t really sound like a picnic either.”

Enjolras lets out a breathy laugh and leans forward until his forehead rests against Grantaire’s. Their hands are still clasping at each other and Enjolras tries to let the tension still clinging to the corners of his being go.

“Thank you,” he mutters. “For stopping me, for understanding… For not—” He gives up on words and presses a kiss on Grantaire’s mouth.

Grantaire kisses him back, slowly and carefully. It’s not hurried and hungry like before, but it wipes the thoughts out of Enjolras’ mind. It untangles the knots in his stomach. It’s slow and sweet and when they drift apart Enjolras can smile at Grantaire and actually mean it.

Grantaire smiles back at him. He toys with the fingers of Enjolras’ left hand and Enjolras squeezes back happily.

“I don’t think I’ve really _dated_ since I, you know, died,” Grantaire says with a crooked smile. “But going on previous experience… Disastrous as parts of this night were, I’ve still had worse.”

Enjolras laughs, but he has one more thing to be sincere about. Because he’s no longer sorry. Not anymore. Not now he knows none of this made Grantaire think less of him or worse of him. Instead he is glad, _so_ glad, that Grantaire was there with him.

“I’m not saying it _was_ a date,” Enjolras begins. (And never mind that he really wanted it to be a date when he asked Grantaire out on the walk.) “But if it was,” he continues. “It wasn’t a bad one, not actually.” He gives Grantaire an earnest look. “We did good. We protected our community.”

Grantaire doesn’t answer, but instead looks at him with a brilliant smile dancing in his eyes and slowly spreading across his whole face.

Enjolras smiles too. It’s not really an option not to. “What?” he asks.

“Our community,” Grantaire repeats, squeezing his fingers slightly.

Enjolras feels a jolt in his chest. Maybe part of him had stayed afraid that Grantaire wouldn’t really want to stay. Not in the end. That he’d never really be truly settled. That’s definitely the prejudice he had had of transient vampires before and, well, it would have broken him if it turned out to be true. He swallows. “It _is_ our community, R.”

For a moment it looks like Grantaire is about to reply, but then his hands are suddenly cupping Enjolras’ face and he’s kissing him like they’re back in the backstreet half a block from Sanquin and Grantaire is tasting him for the first time.

Enjolras lets his mind go blank and fill sit with Grantaire. Grantaire’s hands, Grantaire’s skin, Grantaire’s tongue.

When they break apart, all Enjolras can feel is that same wild craving from before and he nearly whines when Grantaire pulls away from him, blinking heavily.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, clearing his throat and trying to put some more distance between them. “Sorry, you were talking.”

Enjolras chases after him, grabbing at Grantaire’s hips. “No, I’m good actually,” he says and his voice sounds so different that it’s almost surprising that it somehow still sounds completely like him.

The look in Grantaire’s eyes darkens slightly and he glances at Enjolras’ mouth.

Enjolras gives him a single moment to grin before dragging him straight back into the kiss.

This time Grantaire doesn’t hold back and Enjolras lets himself be pushed back steadily as Grantaire presses against him. They take a few staggering steps through the room, but Grantaire stops before they reach the bed. Enjolras breaks away from him, takes a moment to read the look in Grantaire’s darkened eyes, and – concluding that Grantaire’s hesitation was for _his_ benefit, not his own – lets himself fall back onto the bed, pulling Grantaire on top of him. Grantaire groans when Enjolras buries his hands in his hair and Enjolras sighs when he feels Grantaire’s lips pressing against his collar bones. Suddenly there is not enough skin to touch between them and Enjolras pulls at Grantaire’s t-shirt.

Grantaire sits up long enough to get rid of it himself, throwing it aside impatiently. Enjolras pushes himself up on his elbows, wordlessly asking Grantaire for help with his own shirt. Grantaire helps him strip it off and then eagerly leans over him again. He’s straddling Enjolras’ legs with his own and he seems aware for the first time that Enjolras is spread out on the bed beneath him. He blows out a noisy breath and stares for a moment.

“You’re so beautiful…”

Enjolras smiles, leaning into the hand Grantaire extends towards his face. Grantaire brushes Enjolras’ hair out of his face and cups his cheek before brushing his thumb across Enjolras’ lip. Enjolras presses a kiss on the pad of Grantaire’s thumb and opens his mouth slightly when Grantaire moves down to his bottom lip. Grantaire looks at him with enamoured eyes and Enjolras barely resists the urge to bite at Grantaire’s stroking hand. Because he wants to break his skin, soothe the wound with kisses, taste blood on his lips.

“R,” he breathes instead, throwing his head back, and as soon as he reaches out Grantaire’s lips are back on his.

This time Enjolras lets his hands slide down Grantaire’s back, tracing his spine and grabbing at his hips. Grantaire is still supporting himself with one arm, but the other hand is tangling into Enjolras’ hair. Enjolras slips one hand into Grantaire’s locks and thinks of the day he showed up with Musichetta in tow, with his hair freshly cut. Enjolras gives a slight pull and Grantaire groans into his mouth. He kisses Enjolras harder for a moment, but when Enjolras lets his fingers dig in his lower back, he breaks away with a gasp.

“Enj,” he mutters. “It’s— It’s going to be day soon.”

“Stay,” Enjolras begs. He can’t be without Grantaire right now. He can’t. “Please.”

“Fuck, of course I’ll stay,” Grantaire breathes. “I’ll stay as long as you want me.”

“All day,” Enjolras says, sitting up to chase Grantaire’s lips. “Stay the day.” And he pushes Grantaire off him, onto his back, and climbs on top of him.

“As long as you want,” Grantaire promises again and Enjolras buries his face in his neck.

Grantaire squirms underneath him, one hand immediately twisting into his hair again, the other stroking down his side. Enjolras moves against him, pressing kisses down his neck, and the smell and feeling of Grantaire all around him is becoming overwhelming. Grantaire throws his head to the side and mutters something adoring. Enjolras opens his mouth ever so slightly and he feels Grantaire shiver. His fingers tighten in Enjolras’ hair and Enjolras wants to taste him so badly he can’t think straight.

“Can…can I bite you?” he whispers, forcing the words past the hunger trying to part his lips further. “R, I want—”

“Yes, bite me.” Grantaire’s voice is so heavy with want that Enjolras can feel the sound of it reaching into his chest. “Please— Drink.”

The frantic neediness of his voice actually makes Enjolras forget how his teeth are grazing Grantaire’s skin for a moment. It’s like he could drink that sound alone and be satisfied. He closes his eyes and slowly kisses his way further up Grantaire’s neck again, burying his face in the locks curling around his ears. There’s no longer any foreign smell clinging to his hair. No human blood or medical cleaning agents, it’s all Grantaire.

“Please,” Grantaire begs and the fingers that are tangled in Enjolras’ hair twitch, as if he’s barely resisting the urge to drag him back down. “Enj…”

Enjolras slides down a little, spreading his legs to straddle Grantaire and he pulls his head aside with an abrupt enough moment to make Grantaire gasp. He tastes his skin with his tongue and this time his teeth nearly press down on their own accord. Grantaire writhes and keens desperately when Enjolras just manages to hold back and Enjolras can feel his head spinning.

“Ask me again,” he whispers eagerly.

“Enj—” Grantaire groans.

“Ask me,” Enjolras demands, touching his fangs to the softest spot of Grantaire’s neck.

Grantaire gulps. “Bite me,” he breathes. “ _Please_ , just—”

Enjolras bites down and sinks his teeth into Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire stops breathing, swallowing down the cry of pleasure that nearly escaped his throat. His back arches off the bed and Enjolras presses down on him, skin against skin, as close as they can be. It’s only when Enjolras releases the pressure on his teeth that the taste of Grantaire fills his mouth.

A strange heat thrills inside Enjolras’ body as soon as it does. One of his hands is still grabbing in Grantaire’s hair, but he has to use the other arm to steady himself, still leaning on his knees as well as leaning on Grantaire’s body.

Grantaire’s blood tastes like the way he moves his hands when he talks, like the sound of his laugh, like the friendly but slightly guarded curve of his mouth when he grins. It’s perfect and Enjolras is filling himself with it.

Grantaire makes a noise that makes Enjolras drink deeper. He can hear the sound of nails on cotton and wonders if they are Grantaire’s or his own. He’s still drinking and he never wants to stop, but he also wants to pull away. He wants to see the writhing he feels in Grantaire’s body, see the look in his eyes, kiss his lips, touch his face.

Before he can pull away, he feels Grantaire’s hand pressing down on the back of his head.

The sound Grantaire makes is barely a word, but Enjolras feels _weak_ listening to it. He claws his fingers through Grantaire’s thick curls and Grantaire groans, clutching at his back. Enjolras swallows and his throat immediately feels parched again. Grantaire’s blood is thick and cool, but there is a heat hidden within it that is warming Enjolras up inside and it is _never_ going to be enough. Except he can’t speak when he’s drinking and he needs to tell Grantaire…

Enjolras lifts up his head and sways upright, his hands spread steadyingly across Grantaire’s chest. His head is swimming and with every breath of air he inhales it feels like he’s drinking Grantaire in deeper. He wanted to say something, something about how this feels, but he’s lost the words and all he can do is look at Grantaire, spread out on his bed like a dream, and smile.

“Oh god, your mouth,” Grantaire groans, grabbing at Enjolras hands where they are pressed to his chest. “I always wondered what you’d look like after feeding.”

His eyes are still dark with lust and _so_ full of adoration. Enjolras frees one of his hands and reaches out to touch Grantaire’s face. Grantaire’s eyes flutter shut for a moment and he shudders when Enjolras’ fingers slide down his throat, towards the already healed wound. His neck is unblemished, but Enjolras runs his fingers over the wet skin anyway. He needs to be sure. Needs to know he didn’t leave a mark on Grantaire. Not on his skin at least.

When he retracts his hand, his fingers are stained red with Grantaire’s blood. Grantaire is still looking at him and Enjolras makes sure to look straight into his eyes as he lifts his fingers to his lips and slides them into his mouth, licking them clean.

Grantaire’s eyes widen. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes and his mouth opens in such a way that his fangs are suddenly catching the light.

A strange echo of his hunger for Grantaire twists in Enjolras’ chest and he wants to feel those teeth against his skin. He lets his hand drop. Sliding his fingers out of his mouth, still tasting Grantaire on his own skin, and reaches for him with a needy sound on his lips.

Grantaire moves immediately and he sits up, wrapping his arms around Enjolras and suddenly turning him around. Enjolras lets the feelings swirling in his mind blur into the sudden movement and allows himself to be disoriented to the point that there’s really nothing but Grantaire’s taste on his tongue and Grantaire’s body against his. He leans back, leaning into him, his back pressed against Grantaire’s chest and Grantaire breathes something adoring into his ear. Enjolras closes his eyes.

Suddenly Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s mouth on him and everything else fades. Grantaire’s stubble is rough against his skin. He’s pressing frantic kisses along Enjolras’ neck and shoulder, his arms reaching towards his chest, tracing his nails lightly down his ribcage.

Enjolras groans, pressing back against him. Grantaire is kneeling behind him, stable and strong enough to support all his weight and Enjolras shudders when one of his hands travels up, brushing past Enjolras’ throat and tracing the line of his jaw as he tilts his head to the side.

Grantaire opens his mouth against Enjolras’ skin, making him swallow a moan. His kisses change, becoming all tongue and teeth, but he doesn’t bite down and Enjolras _wants him to_.

“R,” he murmurs, his voice sounding just as dazed as he feels.

Grantaire hums and presses his fingertips to Enjolras’ lips. Enjolras presses breathless kisses on them, staring mindlessly ahead of him with half-lidded eyes, wishing he could see Grantaire as he touched him.

“Do you think I’ll be able to taste myself?” Grantaire’s voice comes through the haze, low and eager. “Could I taste myself in your blood right now?”

Enjolras can’t think anymore, he can feel Grantaire’s fangs ghosting over his skin and it’s agony. It’s not enough. He lets his head drop forward, leaning into the touch of Grantaire’s hand which is still resting loosely at the base of his throat. Grantaire makes a soft, far too gentle noise and pulls him back in, back flush against his chest, with his teeth pressed to his neck again.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whines.

“Enj, I can smell your blood even through my own,” Grantaire murmurs adoringly and Enjolras can feel something shaking inside of him.

“R, _please_ —” He’s begging just like Grantaire did, but Grantaire gives in as soon as the last word leaves Enjolras’ lips.

His fangs sink into Enjolras’ flesh and Enjolras lets out a groaning cry he has no chance of swallowing. The faint pain and the roaring pleasure are impossible to disentangle from one another. Enjolras reaches back frantically and digs his fingers into Grantaire’s scalp, keeping his head in place as Grantaire drinks hungrily. Enjolras can feel something of his flowing straight into Grantaire and he’s suddenly startlingly sure that no one has ever done this to him. Nothing has ever felt like this. He’s lost in the moment, lips parted in soundless pleasure, and then Grantaire moves and the world comes into focus again.

Grantaire breaks away. His hands never leave Enjolras’ body, but his balance is so disturbed that he rocks back until he’s sitting on his heels and slides to the side. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck your blood is strong.”

Enjolras turns around, the vague sting to his neck disappearing as he can feel himself heal, and looks at Grantaire. He’s lying back on the bed, one hand grabbing at the sheets and the other still reaching towards Enjolras. His eyes are wide and his mouth is red and gasping and Enjolras immediately leans over him to kiss him.

Grantaire moans into his mouth and kisses him back, making Enjolras taste his own blood. Enjolras deepens the kiss eagerly, but he somehow feels less frantic. Edges that felt sharp a moment ago are slowly growing fuzzy. He lets the kiss grow gentler, until they’re nearly breathing against each other’s lips. Slowly Enjolras opens his eyes to look at Grantaire as he pulls away just a little. Grantaire is gorgeous, with his dark hair in tangles and his eyes glazed over with pleasure. Enjolras leans over him, enamoured by the way he is moving his lips, the red of his blood still staining the edges.

“You’re _filled_ with this,” Grantaire pants, his eyes darting up to Enjolras’ face. “All the time. Shit, Enj, how do you not burn up from the inside out.”

Enjolras laughs softly and strokes some stray locks out of Grantaire’s face.

“I’m _drunk_ on you,” Grantaire marvels, his hands reaching out blindly to hold on to Enjolras in any way he can. “I’m- Drunk isn’t the right word. It’s—”

“Intoxicating,” Enjolras breathes. “That’s how you taste…” And he nudges against Grantaire’s neck, lying close against his side as he slowly licks Grantaire’s skin clean. The different tastes of blood blur in his mouth and everything about this is right.

When Enjolras lifts his head Grantaire is sucking his bottom lip in slightly, his eyes almost closed but not quite. Enjolras would kiss him if he wasn’t afraid of disturbing that picture. He looks at Grantaire, quietly overwhelmed by the feeling of incredibly closeness inside of him, and lets the moment last.

Finally Grantaire lifts up his eyes and looks at him, a smile slowly gracing his face.

“I want you so badly,” he breathes and Enjolras feels the fuzzy edges of warmth wrap closer around him. Because Grantaire isn’t speaking in past tense and that is all Enjolras wanted to hear right now.

He nestles against Grantaire, as close as he can, skin against skin. “I don’t even know,” he murmurs. “I don’t even know when I fell in love with you.”

Grantaire’s expression is like golden firelight. “I’ve been in love with you since…since your speech on ally housing.”

Enjolras lifts up his eyes in surprise. That seems so long ago… “We had a fight about being transient during that meeting,” he frowns.

Grantaire gives him a helpless grin and Enjolras repays him with an incredulous smile. He puts his head down again, resting against Grantaire’s shoulder. “I’d rather do this than fighting.”

“Oh,” Grantaire laughs. “No contest.”

Enjolras hums, too happy to try and find words for what he’s feeling and revels in just lying in Grantaire’s arms.

Eventually, before the drowsiness settling over them draws them in too much, they both get up to finally strip off their jeans. Enjolras closes the window, as well as the shutters and curtain, while Grantaire makes a half-hearted attempt to tidy up their discarded clothes. When they get back into the bed they slide under the covers together, ignoring the fact that there are definitely some dark smudges on the duvet.

Grantaire pulls Enjolras back into his arms, wrapping himself around him from behind, and Enjolras enjoys the feeling of skin on skin without any of the dazed feelings from earlier distracting him. It grows quiet in the room as they both grow drowsy, forgetting to breathe as they drift towards sleep. Enjolras feels Grantaire’s lips press a kiss against the back of his neck and he smiles, squeezing the hand Grantaire has resting on his stomach, just before he falls asleep.

♦

“ _Mon dieu_ , sweet little Enjolras, do I need to start bolting your windows?”

Enjolras opens his eyes, squinting against the sudden presence of lamplight. Courfeyrac is standing at the foot of the bed, trying very hard to keep a shocked expression, but spoiling it with the unrestrained delight in his eyes.

“Courf, no,” he grumbles, waving him away. “We’re not waking up yet.”

Grantaire is still lying beside him, his face obscured by his pillow, and Enjolras reaches out for him protectively.

“No, I can see that,” Courfeyrac says brightly. “Well, when Grantaire wakes up, tell him well done.”

He grins at Enjolras, fangs glinting cheerfully and turns around to leave. In the doorway he stops and turns back for a moment. Standing there in his silk pyjamas, he makes a very familiar early-evening picture for Enjolras. Which is strange, because the rest of this evening is all new and wonderful, with Grantaire in his arms.

Courfeyrac takes in the scene before him once more, with shameless indulgence and throws Enjolras one more delighted look. “I’ll order some darker bedcovers for you, shall I?” And before Enjolras can reply he swoops out of the room, merrily closing the door behind him.

The door has barely clicked shut before Enjolras feels Grantaire beginning to shake with laughter under his arm.

“You’re awake!” Enjolras says indignantly.

“No I’m not,” Grantaire laughs into his pillow. “I’m never waking up.” And he only turns around to drag Enjolras into his arms.

Enjolras blows out an offended breath and follows it up with a grin. “You’re still going to have to deal with Courf anyway,” he reminds him.

“You will, perhaps,” Grantaire says, trying not to laugh. “I’m going straight out the window again.”

That doesn’t even deserve a reply, so instead of trying to think of one, Enjolras muffles Grantaire’s laughter with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A handful of sentences in this chapter were basically the sole reason this actualy turned into a story.  
> All I wanted was aesthetic vampire kisses, how the hell did I end up with 35k?? (The answer is my sister, of course, it usually is <3) 
> 
> Anyway, I hope it was worth it guys, I hope it was worth it.
> 
> Now on to soft epilogues!


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you decided to skip the last chapter here’s all you need to know:   
> Enjolras and Grantaire told their friends about what happened with Victurnien (Jehan, Chetta and the boys were called over). R stayed the day with Enjolras, they had a good talk about the use of Presence, their feelings and their slightly traumatic first not-a-dates, gratuitous snuggles were had, and Courfeyrac had a great time pretending to be shocked at finding Grantaire’s in Enjolras bed the following evening.
> 
> No content warnings for this one, only happy endings~

_Amsterdam, December 2015_

 

There are tourists with camera’s everywhere, but for once Enjolras is just as inattentive to the possibility of being photographed as Grantaire. The multitude of coloured lights, reflecting in the water of the canals, casting rainbow shadows on buildings left and right, are dazzling and confusing enough that no one will notice an extra shadowy figure on their pictures.

“R, R!” Jehan cries, darting towards him in a flash of faux-fur. “Hold my bag for a moment?”

Grantaire takes their bag and Jehan hurries off, the shine of the light sculptures reflected in their eyes as they take them all in with enamoured appreciation. Grantaire smiles. The light festival will last for over a month, but he’s pretty sure Jehan’s artistic enthusiasm will last that entire time.

“It’s even busier than last year,” Enjolras remarks, his hand tucked into the pocket of Grantaire’s coat.

“Tell me about it, I’ve lost Ferre again,” Courfeyrac complains and he glances across the quay. “I’m going to walk towards the science museum,” he announces. He looks around again. “Is Jehan- Where’s Jehan?”

“You ask silly questions, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire hums, burying his nose in Enjolras’ curls for a moment, just because he can.

“Free spirits, Courf,” Enjolras says innocently. “You know, artists.”

Courfeyrac lets out a suffering sigh. “Chetta,” he says, giving her a resolute glance. “You keep an eye on the insufferable boyfriends, I’m going to find my distracted scientist.”

He marches off and disappears into the crowd, which consists mostly of people much taller than him.

Grantaire laughs at everything and nothing and keeps walking, his hand on the small of Enjolras’ back under his coat. ‘Insufferable boyfriends.’ He grins. Enjolras prefers the word partners, but Grantaire kind of likes ‘boyfriends’. He’s never had a boyfriend before.

“We need to go on another boat ride,” Jehan declares, appearing out of nowhere and squeezing Grantaire’s arm delightedly. “The bridges are all lit up like northern lights.”

“Joly and Bossuet would definitely be up for that,” Musichetta says and Jehan happily links their arm with hers. “They’re not so fond of the whole walking thing.”

“Boat rides on Saturday then,” Jehan says contentedly.

Both Bossuet and Joly had to work tonight, so they couldn’t join in. Although Grantaire wonders how much work they’re getting done, judging from the amount of texts Musichetta has been receiving.

“Speaking of boats,” Enjolras mutters and because he’s clearly sinking his voice on purpose Grantaire lowers his too.

“Yeah?”

“A couple of the tours are for smaller boats instead of the big group ones,” Enjolras says, searching for eye-contact and giving Grantaire a questioning look. “I thought, maybe we could go together one of the nights. If you feel like it. But if you’d rather stay as a group or be with Jehan, of course that is fine. I don’t want to—”

Grantaire wants to kiss Enjolras’ beautiful mouth shut. He really does. But instead he chooses a less invasive interruption. “Yes.”

Enjolras stops mid-sentence. “Okay then,” he says happily.

“Okay then,” Grantaire grins and he presses a kiss on his lips.

Instead of letting him go Enjolras pulls him closer, abruptly enough for Grantaire to stumble forward slightly and to earn a delighted giggle from Jehan in the background.

Grantaire is far too happy to be demanding right now, but when Enjolras kisses him deeper he gleefully kisses back. They press close together, momentarily blind to the many lights and wholly inattentive to the people walking around them. Enjolras breathes out a vague sound of happiness and Grantaire kisses him until he can taste Enjolras’ blood as well as his own.

There’s a glorious sort of happiness to sudden kisses in the middle of the street and they don’t stop until Musichetta starts making very loud comments about her duties as a chaperone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked my sister for a closing scene for this story and she reminded me of the [Amsterdam Light Festival](https://www.google.nl/search?q=amsterdam+light+festival&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj2sZyGxd_aAhUBliwKHfhMDHkQ_AUICigB&biw=681&bih=608), which was perfect, because I wanted a nice group activity to end on. ^_^
> 
> This story gave me a _lot_ of trouble, but in the end (and with a lot of help  <3) I am actually happy with it. Thank you very much for reading, I really hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> And, considering you made it this far, I hope you’ll stay tuned for the next part in this series, which I will certainly do my best to provide <3


End file.
